


The Untold Tales

by Ceris_Malfoy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hales, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Anal Knotting, BAMF!Stiles, Bonding, Breeding, Come Inflation, Cross-Generation Relationship, Demented Harley Quinn/Joker under score, Dirty Talk, Don't mess with Stiles' things people, Double Knotting, Double Penetration, Double Vaginal Penetration, Drugged Sex, Extreme Underage, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Feels, Gang Rape, Gangbang, HaleCest, Implied Incest, Introspection, Knotting, M/M, Mashup with Rob Zombie's 31, Mating, Meeting the parent, Mentioned: - Freeform, Misunderstandings, Morally Ambiguous!Stiles, Multi, Multiple Penetration, No One Is Perfect, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Older Man/Younger Woman, Peter actually cares, Peter is a little slow, Peter is not used to real relationships, Peter survived season 1, Possessive Peter, Pre-Poly, Psychopaths In Love, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Rutting, SHE HAS NO LIMITS, Scott is a Good Friend, Sex Toys, Sexual Grooming, Size Difference, Skull Fucking, Sounding, Spark!Stiles, Stiles is impulsive, Stiles is kinda a troll, Stiles is not oblivious, Stilinski Family Feels, Stretching kink, Time-line, True Mates, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unhealthy Relationships, Urethral Play, With-His-Own-Agenda!Deaton, about Stiles only though, after the possession, all holes filled, allusions to future Peter/Stiles/Derek, alternate 3B, alternate methods for evicting the 1000 year old fox demon living inside your head, alternate season 2, but it works for her, but that's okay, calling Peter out on his BS, crafty Peter, cumflation, even if he can be a stupid shit, extended pack, fantasies of:, gaping, garage scene remix, good first time, impetuous teenager!Stiles, k thanx bye, no nogitsune, or her people for that matter, pack abandonment, pack orgy, piss drinking, pre murder husbands, season 6 inspired, serious conversations, sex with feels, sociopaths in love, somewhat character study, stalkee!Stiles, stalker!Peter, the wild hunt, throat-fucking, too-trusting!Scott, urethral Penetration, verbally abusive Derek, void!Stiles, what time-line?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/pseuds/Ceris_Malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stuff that's been sitting on my hard-drive for the past 2 years. Probably not going to be finished any time soon, thanks to RL issues, but... maybe, once I get back on my feet.</p><p>1st Chapter is a preface/explanation about stuff. </p><p><b>Added 11/30/17:</b><br/>Chapter 13: “Why can’t you see I’m not the bad guy here?” Peter asks her, and it’s a rhetorical question, it is, but Stiles is much too angry to really care about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these will be super-long, others will be hella short. There is much in between.  
> I give blanket permission to ANYONE to play around with any idea you see in this collection.  
> Just please link me to it so that I can read and enjoy~!

So. 

I have, unfortunately, been out of touch with a lot of you for quite some time. I still get the occassional review/comment floating through my e-mail, but I haven't answered many of them. This is for a simple reason: I have no internet right now. My access is limited to breaks at work and the few times I can leech off my friend's connection when I get to go visit her.

I am also, unfortunately, out of practice with writing. I honestly have not sat down and written anything in the past year, if not longer. 

And I keep looking at my poor external hard-drive, that I carry back and forth to work with me every day, hopeful that today will be the day that inspiration strikes and I'll finish all these little fics I have half-written on it. But that day has yet to arrive, and quite frankly, I'm loosing hope that it ever will. But some of these were intended to be gifts and prompt fills, and I eventually made the decision to share what I do have with everyone. 

I did not forget you. I did not mean to disappear and never return. I do intend to return to these eventually when I get my life straightened out, but I'm not counting on it being anytime soon. 

This collection of unfinished works will span a broad selection of warnings and ratings. Pairings will vary. Plots may be filled with holes. Characters may be supremely OOC and conversations stilted. Some things may sound super-familiar, as there are several that I've re-written several times with different end-games in mind. 

Have fun, and I hope you enjoy these!

Thinking fondly of you all,

Ceris Malfoy

 


	2. Down and Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparks aren't meant to be running around without a) training or b) a supernatural tether (usually a mate).  
> Derek/Peter, pre Derek/Stiles/Peter

Since the day he’s resurrected, Peter is his constant shadow, whispering in his ear all the dark, secret things Derek already knows but doesn’t want to acknowledge. He doesn’t want to hear these things, doesn’t want to comprehend them, but Peter whispers them all the same, voice like a shadow in of itself, too low and haunting for any of the young betas around them to hear, let alone the humans.

One human in particular.

And try as he might to ignore his irritating uncle, Derek can’t help but listen, because despite how hard he tries to deny it, the truth of the matter is that he’s always been _Peter’s_ pup, has always belonged more to his uncle than his mother or his sisters, has always been at the deepest core of him just as savagely possessive as his uncle.

And Peter whispers about _Stiles_ , innocent, pretty, ruthless Stiles. Stiles with her large doe eyes and cocksucker’s mouth; her pale, unmarked skin and all those moles splattered across it like an invitation to play; that lithe, lean, muscled body the tall girl hides beneath layers upon layers of clothing. Peter whispers about the things he wants to do to the girl; he whispers about the things he wants to watch _Derek_ do to the girl.

Derek resists all throughout his (thankfully) brief bid as alpha, resists the entire summer he and Cora take off for Brazil to deliver her safely into the insanely worried arms of her adoptive pack, resists even when he’s back in Beacon Hills and trying to build a life that’s not centered on destruction and mayhem.

But as time goes on, Peter’s whispers grow frustrated, harsher, until finally Peter is whispering the coldest, hardest truth that Derek truly doesn’t want to acknowledge: that Stiles is going insane, losing the part of her that makes her so intrinsically captivating to them both. Stiles is a Spark, unbonded and too powerful to be so. And Derek can see it, can see the way that Stiles fairly shines with raw power these days, uncontained and uncontrolled, the shimmer of it leaking from her pores, a great yawning void of _too much_.

The power in Stiles is hungry and wanting, and already the girl, drowning in the depths of her own birthright, has tried to kill the just-awakened kitsune that recently transferred in.

She has already killed Allison, drained the older girl of her vitality and left her nothing but a dried-up husk.

And the worst of it all is that Stiles had _tried_ to warn them, had tried to explain to each and every one of them that something wasn’t right with her, that she had blank spots in her memory and sometimes even had difficulty noticing if she was dreaming or awake. No one, not even Derek had listened to her – no one but Peter, that is – and now one of them lies dead, and Stiles looks at all of them, even Scott, like strangers.

“Then you do it!” Derek finally snaps, snarling, beta-blue eyes flashing at Peter like they were still alpha-red and capable of bringing his unhinged uncle to some semblance of submission. He feels unsettled and so unbearably angry. There’s to be a meeting at Deaton’s about the situation, and how to handle it. For all that Deaton is fond of Scott, Derek knows the man’s loyalties wear blinders, and the older man has never been fond of Stiles and her role in Scott’s life. Derek also knows that Scott would do anything Deaton asks of him if the elder worded the request correctly, and knows that Stiles’ time is running out.

(There’s a part of his off-centered feelings that hinge on the thought of Peter having Stiles all to himself. He’d never admit it, not for anything in the world, but part of his irrational anger is the voice that whispers in the back of his mind of how Stiles will have Peter, and _he_ won’t.)

“I’m not enough,” Peter admits casually, not a hint of chagrin in his voice. “Were I still an alpha, and had I caught her early enough, I _might_ have managed it. But, Derek, I’m not an alpha, and she’s gone far too long without either being trained or claimed: you think she’s bad now, just wait and see what she’ll be like bound to a single mate driven crazy by her power.”

And those words make Derek grow pale, because he can imagine that scenario so very clearly. He _still_ has nightmares about the monster his favorite uncle had become, remembers with aching familiarity the feel of his uncle’s claws ripping his lungs wide open. He doesn’t want to see that happen again, doesn’t want to look into his uncle’s eyes and see nothing familiar – nothing _sane_ – ever again.

“Two of the same blood, Derek,” Peter continues, sliding off the couch, stalking forward, blue eyes intent on his nephew. “And guess who just so happens to have a set of _twins_ at his disposal?” Peter stalks around him, and despite the casual tone of his voice, there is something feral about his gaze, something unhinged and hungry that makes Derek want to bare his neck and whimper-whine in submission. “It won’t be good for her if they catch her. You _know_ this. Deucalion will force-bond her to his baby-alphas, and you _know_ how bonds like that tend to work out, Derek. You know what will happen.”

Death. Death and ruination. _No one_ forced mating bonds on a Spark. Not ever. The last time someone had tried, well, just think Pompeii. If Deucalion had any kind of sense, he wouldn’t risk it either, but Derek has seen first-hand that the alpha of alphas was even crazier than Peter at his worst, no matter what Scott thought about his so-called 'redemption'. If Deucalion caught her….

Even worse still is what will happen to her if _Deaton_ catches her. A Spark denied access to their power? She’d be dead within a week at her own hands, or would have permanent residence in a psychiatric ward.

“Just think of it,” Peter croons, voice suddenly dipping into a register that invites images of naked bodies writhing in the dark, easing close enough that Derek can feel the hot line of his hard body against his own, can feel the warm ghost of Peter’s breath against the shell of his ear. “No more looking over your shoulder, wondering if today’s the day I’ll be waiting to stab everyone in the back. You’ll be able to _feel_ me, Derek, through her; you’ll be able to _truly_ determine my lies from my truths. You’ll have not one mate, but _two_ , a pack bound to you tighter than anything you’ve ever known."

Derek can’t breathe, can’t think. He’s grown achingly hard, his erection digging into his uncle’s thigh, and Peter doesn’t move away the way that he should, but instead worms his way in ever closer.

“Think of it,” Peter says, thick, strong fingers digging into Derek’s hips as he forces Derek to grind against him, pulling an involuntary whine out of the younger man. Derek can feel his uncle’s own erection, both shorter and thicker than his own, as it fills, hardening against Derek’s thigh. “Think of how tight she’ll be, how wet and eager as we both ease into her, both of us stretching her wide, filling her. Think of how she’ll writhe between us, Derek, whimpering and moaning, begging us. Think of how it will feel to fully let go for once, let our knots swell within her at the same time, both of us nestled tight and snug against each other as we fill her full of us, until her little belly is swollen with our seed.”

Derek whines as his hips jerk faster, rutting almost savagely against his uncle. Peter’s words fill his mind and his senses, so powerful in their imagery that he can almost hear her, breathy and wanting as she is filled by them both. “She’ll take us so well,” he can’t help but say, knowing even as he does that he’s damned. It doesn’t make it any less true though – Sparks were _made_ to be claimed. And one like Stiles?

“We’ll both breed her,” Peter hisses, fingers tightening as he chases his orgasm. “Neither one of us will ever know who the true father of our babes is – we’ll _both_ fill her every night.”

“Every day,” Derek says, voice too quiet for human ears to catch, a soft sigh exhaled between them as his entire body tightens and shudders through the force of his release.

“Keep her on our cocks at all times,” Peter agrees breathily, before he bites down on Derek’s neck, savage and sharp, drawing blood. His entire body shivers, his hips jerking, pushing against Derek’s oversensitive cock. Derek wraps his arms around his uncle, pulling him closer.

***

They never do make it to Deaton’s. But that's alright, because neither does Stiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline? What timeline?
> 
> So, the way I see this as working is that everything happened in 3A as scheduled except that no one sacrificed themselves because Jenny never got that far 'cause Peter HAS HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BULLSHIT (thank god for psychotic uncles, yeah?). Deucalion is still trounced soundly and is allowed to attempt 'redemption' because Scott. The wonder-twins still answer to him. Kali is dead. Stiles starts to experience the same sort of symptoms as cannon 3B Stiles does, but in this universe, it's because her spark is going out of control. She tries to tell everyone, but no one is really concerned about it until Allison is killed and Stiles doesn't seem to recognize any of them. She's running on base instincts, and all she knows is she _wants._


	3. I'm not your sugar-baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's been robbed. The loss of his money means the loss of more than just his comfortable lifestyle: it means the loss of Stiles too.
> 
> Only thing is, Stiles never gave a shit about the money.

Peter keeps one ear on Stiles as he browses through his paperwork, listening to the ever-swift beat of her heart as she paces back and forth.

Stiles is looking for Derek, yet again, and growing angrier by the second the longer he fails to show up.

Peter thinks it’s funny, in a way, and usually he’d be all over the girl, pinning her to a wall and turning all that feisty energy into something much more enjoyable for the both of them, but right now, he has other things to worry about.

Such as the fact that his money has been stolen, he has no leads on who did it, and his rent is not only late, but the last day he can pay it before he finds an eviction notice on his door is in two weeks.

He scowls at the paper in his hands, this particular one from the family lawyer, telling him that unless he is able to come up with a satisfactory explanation for the humans as to how, exactly, he managed to rise from the dead, he won’t be able to regain access to his accounts.  

Stiles flops down on the sofa next to him with a muttered, “Asshole.” She’s scowling down at her phone, texting something with harsh, angry jabs of her thumb. Absently, Stiles twists so that most of her body is wrapped tight around him, her head tucked onto one of his shoulders. He doesn’t mind. Even angry with the situation he’s found himself in, he could never mind the feel of her pressed up against him. He sighs and leans back just a touch, letting her take some of his own weight, humming faintly when she nuzzles the side of his face. Peter smiles despite himself, tilts his head and lazily does the same to her.

What they have is still too new, too fresh, for either of them to feel comfortable with words, but there is an easiness to it all that both of them found relaxing. Scenting each other, leaving a small, but noticeably mark on each other that will linger for hours after they’ve parted says more to both of them than any meaningless words anyway. Peter knows that it can’t last, not forever, especially not now that he is broke and no longer able to afford to keep her, but he’ll take what little he can get.

God damn but he is getting pathetic in his old age.

Still, he should have remembered that Stiles is insatiably curious, and once she had finished their customary greetings, she immediately reaches out and grabs a folder from the pile beside him. He sighs again and closes his eyes, grimacing as he waits for what comes next.

“Peter…” Stiles’ voice trails off for a second as she reads. “Are these… are these  _job_  applications?”

“Yes,” he admits.

“Why?” she asks.

Peter contemplates not answering. “I got robbed,” he replies eventually, knowing full well that if he doesn’t tell her, Derek  _would_. (Derek’s never made it a secret that he didn’t approve of this thing between Stiles and Peter, and were it not for the absolute surety with which Stiles had told Derek that she gave absolutely no fucks about his opinion in her personal life, Peter might not have continued to pursue this course. That didn’t stop Derek from nitpicking and digging at obvious sore points.)

“ _You_  got robbed.” Her tone is a little flat, definitely disbelieving.

“Yes, I got robbed.”

She picks up another paper – this one a notice of his late rent and the final date he could pay it if he wants to keep his apartment. The next one is a rejection notice from the law firm he’d worked with before the fire, politely but firmly declining his application alongside a recommendation to three other firms that might be looking for a lawyer of his caliber. The next seven after that, rejection letters from other firms he’d tried. “Wow,” she finally murmurs. “What assholes.”

“I can’t really blame them, Stiles. My resume is a little out of date.”

“What’s Derek doing about this?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he growls, body involuntarily tensing as he fights back the instinctual shift that comes with the burning anger he currently feels towards his nephew.

She hisses a little at that, running her free-hand down his arm soothingly. “It’ll be fine, Peter,” she finally says. “So you’re a little broke. It’s not like it’s the end of _everything_.”

“Isn’t it? Without my money, I have  _nothing_ ,” he snaps out, pulling free of her grasp and standing up, just about 800% done with this conversation. He grabs his jacket from the railing where he tossed it earlier and shrugs it on.

“You have me,” she says just before he opens the door, and something in her voice makes him stop where he is. He’s never heard that tone from her before, has never heard that tone from  _anyone_  directed at him. It is soft, something vulnerable and easily broken but at the same time as sure as the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky.

“Do I?” he asks, unable to bring himself to look at her.

“Oh _wow_ ,” she says. “I knew you could be kinda slow on the uptake, but  _damn_.”

He hears her get off the couch and walk over to him, but doesn’t turn around. She touches his back gently, hesitantly, as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she touches too hard. To be fair, he just might.

“Peter,” Stiles sighs. “You _know_ me, Peter. Think about it seriously. If you think for one goddamned second that the _only_ reason I’m sleeping with you is because you can buy me things, you’re even slower than I thought.”

And the sad truth of it is that he _does_ know her, better than anyone else alive. But at the same time, he doesn’t know her at all, because every time he thinks he’s got her pegged, she turns around and changes the rules on him. She baffles him and intrigues him, alternatively pissing him off and leaving him in awe of her. Above all things, he knows how loyal she is, and knows that if push comes to shove, she will choose her father and Scott over him any day of the week. His only in had been his ability to weasel into her life by means of small gifts and take out during their long moments of research and waiting for the bodies to come home alive and well, or in a body bag. He says as much, still facing the door.

The next thing he knows, Stiles is slapping the back of his head, a sharp little rap that doesn’t sting nearly as much as it should. “You’re so  _stupid_ , Peter. The gifts were nice, and so were the dinners, but Peter, I’m with _you_ because you took the time and effort to try and break through all my barriers. Not even  _Scott_  has made that kind of effort.  _No one_  has. My own father would rather just leave me to my eccentricities than try and understand them. You  _see_ me, Peter. Out of everyone I’ve ever met, you alone have seen all of me, the good and the not-so-good and the murderously possessive, and wanted me _because_  of it instead of despite of it.” She cuddles close to him, resting her head between his shoulder blades. “You knew immediately that I wasn’t myself, that something had a hold on me. You _knew_ when no one else would believe me.” There’s a humorless laugh. “Don’t get me wrong, because I adore being pampered, but, Peter, no matter how many times we may explore my ridiculous daddy kink, the fact is _you’re not my father_. It is not your job to provide for me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a one-and-done person; you’re stuck with me now, for better or for worse, rich or poor, in sickness and in health.”

“Stiles…”

“Besides,” she continues, talking over him like she can’t afford to give him a chance to speak. “In 3 months it’s not like you’ll need to worry about money anyway – I’ll finally be able to legally use my trust account, and believe me Peter, there’s more than enough there for us to live comfortably while also putting me through college without either of us having to work. I think I like the thought of that, actually. You at home, waiting for me to get out of class, a nice meal either started or finishing, greeting me with kisses and afternoon sex. My very own kept man.”

 "And until then?" He finally turns to look at her, defeated and elated and completely numb all at once because despite everything, she's  _his_. He actually gets to _keep_ her. 

Stiles shrugs. "You move in with me."

"Your dad - "

"Isn't home 6 nights out of seven, and it's not like he doesn't know about us."

"...what."

Stiles laughs at him. "You really think I'd get this deeply involved with someone and _not_ tell my dad? My dad's not stupid, Peter. He knew I was completely gone on you before I did."

"And he's okay with this."

Her smile widens. "Not in the least."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thing that's been sitting on the hard-drive. 
> 
> It's super unfinished, as I still need to flesh out the scene by a lot, and maybe add some more backstory (like I'm dying to know how that conversation went between Sheriff and Stiles, because damn) as well as tweek Peter's characterization by a lot. But all in all, it's not horrible either, so.


	4. 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is not in shock.  
> Stiles is not in rage.  
> Stiles is not grieving.
> 
> What was it his counselor used to say? When going through hell, keep going?
> 
> Stiles is still going.

“5 hours left, and there are still 3 of them alive. This is shaping up to be a most disappointing evening.”

“Who should we call in next? Ennis?”

“No. We need someone with a little cunning. This batch is smarter than last year’s.”

“You mean the _boy_ is smarter than the entire last batch combined.”

“Kali?”

“No, no. Far too impulsive. And besides, you know she does not take solo gigs anymore.”

“Hmmm.”

“Theo?”

“Good Heavens, no. That one boy, the scrawny one. He will eat Theo alive and not think twice.”

“He is a _vicious_ one, is he not? Most delightful. How sad he is not one of ours.”

“Truly.”

“No, I think the only logical choice at this point is Peter.”

“He is scheduled off this year. He will not take kindly to the interruption.”

“He is also the most reliable. He will get the job done.”

“…Agreed.”

“Agreed.”

“Call him.”

***

Peter stares at himself in the mirror, watching the blood drip down his greased face. The rage in his bones has settled, stilled, leaving his mind calm and focused. He flexes his fingers, straightens his cravat. He is ready.

He leaves the bunker, strolling casually into the mass of heavily armed pseudo-clowns. “How many are left?”

“Three.”

“And how much time?”

“Three hours and forty-seven minutes.”

“Plenty of time,” he says. “I can kill your whole family in less.” He smiles when the one clown steps back involuntarily. It is not a kind smile.

“My predecessors?”

“Dead.”

Peter hums thoughtfully at that, not in the least surprised.

“Well, no matter. Pay attention boys. Murder school is now in session.”

***

Stiles is restless.

Scott curls his hand in his mother’s hair and clings just a little tighter to the fitfully sleeping woman. He watches nervously as the other boy, his brother in all but blood, paces.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Scott is scared of Stiles. He has never been scared of him before, even though he’s long known that there was something not quite right about him. He has grown up with Stiles; hw was there for panic attacks and break downs and temper tantrums. Scott _knows_ the kind of person Stiles is. But also, once upon a time, Stiles had had tethers holding him back from doing something entirely unforgiveable. Scott and Stiles’ dad, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, had been the moral standards by which Stiles had guided his life.

Now the Sheriff is dead, cut in two by a chainsaw wielded by a psychotic clown, and Scott is the reason he is dead.

Oh, sure, his mom tells him it is not his fault, but Scott can still hear the bars of the gates as they slid into place, can still see Stiles, wide-eyed and panicked and absolutely _livid_.

It was Scott who had refused to listen to his best friend when he said it was a trap.

It was Scott who had refused to leave until they had rescued the girl strapped to the ground by barbed wire.

It was Scott who had looked away at the wrong moment, looking for Allison because he had heard her scream and he couldn’t lose her too, not after Isaac and Kira had already been taken so savagely from him, and missed his cue to distract one of the two chainsaw-wielding twins.

And now the Sheriff is dead. Allison is too, but Allison isn’t the reason Stiles has lost all claim to morality.

Scott can still see the way Stiles had slinked up behind the twin who had been laughing and taunting the Sheriff’s corpse, spiked bat at the ready. Can still see the way his eyes had glittered just before he had reared back and swung, hard and true. Scott can still hear the crunch of the twin’s head, the screams of the other one, the repeated wet - _thwack_ \- sound as Stiles kept swinging.

He can still see the way the remaining twin had dropped to his knees and started begging for his life as Stiles approached, spiked bat glistening with his brother’s blood. Stiles had stood there and listened, blank-faced and silent in a way Scott had never seen him before, before nodding.

“Of course, my brother,” Stiles had said.

Scott remembers the look of hope that dawned in the man’s eyes, just before Stiles brought his bat down and ended his life, too.

Stiles is dangerous now, wild and completely unmoored. He has taken lives with no regret and no remorse. If they survive this, Scott is not sure that Stiles will ever be able to put that part of him back in a box. Watching the way Stiles is pacing, long, loping strides, Scott thinks that maybe Stiles won’t _want_ to.

Stiles blames him.

He hasn’t actually said as much, but Scott knows. The blame is written in the way Stiles looked at him after the gates had gone down, blank-faced and still silent, watching him with eyes dark and dangerous.

So he watches Stiles pace. He doesn’t try to offer comfort, doesn’t try to calm he raging storm. He just watches, clinging to his mother.

Stiles eventually picks up his bat again. "I'm going to check on things up ahead. It's too quiet. Don't move. If she wakes up, keep her here." Without once looking at either of them, he stalks off.

Scott doesn't try and stop him.

***

 _"You're an **idiot** ,"_ she had said.

Scott falls to his knees, struggling to breathe. Those are his mother's last words to him. Those are the last words he'll ever hear from her. He looks away. He can't look at her, can't bear to see what's become of his precious mother.

He looks at Stiles, and wishes he hadn't.

Stiles is smiling. It is a grim little thing, true, but still a smile.

Scott wants to scream at him. His mother practically helped raise Stiles. She was there for bruises and scraped knees. She taught Stiles how to cook, how to clean, how to help balance his dad's accounts so that the bills got paid on time once it became obvious that the Sheriff wasn't doing so hot on his own after his wife's death.

And now she was tied spread-eagled to some sort of mock-crucifix, gutted like a pig, and here Stiles stands.

Smiling.

***

Peter watches the two young boys as they approach the corpse he has taken great pains to string up.

The one falls to his knees, keening in grief. The other doesn't do much of anything, really. Shock, he supposes. He wonders which one of these boys is the one that puts a touch of fear into his employer's voice. Pale and scrawny doesn't look like he'd have the muscle-strength to do much damage, let alone what he'd seen of Ethan and Aiden, but the one with the crooked jaw isn't much better either.

He frowns thoughtfully. One of these two boys is clever, vicious, and not afraid to play dirty. It won't save him, not against Peter, but there's the very real possibility that if Peter isn't careful, he may end up with an unexplainable wound come sunrise.

Talia would find out about his side business, which just would not do.

He taps his fingers against his thighs, and finally shrugs. Deliberately, he claps.

***

Stiles is not in shock.

Stiles is not in rage.

Stiles is not grieving.

Stiles is not much of anything at the moment.

He feels ...hollow. Empty. Like a void, aching and hungry. He wants.... He wants _something_ , but he is not quite sure what. He licks his chapped lips, wetting them, tasting the lingering blood splatter from the one twin.

He doesn't mind. He is used to the taste of blood by now. He thinks he might be sick when he gets out of here – _if_ he gets out of here – and has time to really process everything, but for now? Well. As those sick fucks at the beginning said, this little game was war, and war is hell. What was it his counselor used to say? When going through hell, keep going?

Stiles is still going.

He turns at the first clap. Scott is a little slower to move away from his mother, but Stiles does not blame him for that. This will be the last time he will see her after all.

The man sitting casually on the balcony overlooking them is … _unsettling_. In another lifetime, Stiles may have formed something of a fear-boner for him. Bright, wicked-blue eyes, sharp cheek-bones, silky brown hair with just a hint of a curl to the ends, a thick neck and broad shoulders....he cut a _very_ fine figure, especially in his gentleman's getup. The white grease-paint smeared over his face and the dried blood covering the lower half of said face, however, kind of ruined – or enhanced, depending – the look.

"Good evening," mystery psycho says, calm and casual as if he had run into them at the park. He smiles, flashing straight, startlingly white teeth made even more ominous by the blood soaked into his lips.

 “Victorious warriors win first,” the man intones, “then go to war. Where defeated warriors, they go to war first, then seek to win.” He cocks his head. “Which are you?”

Stiles stares at him and doesn’t answer. He recognizes the proverb, but doesn’t remember where he heard it before. It does tell him, however, that this one is not going to be like the others. This one has at least two brain-cells to rub together. He is not sure how he feels about that.

To be completely honest, he is not sure he is feeling much of anything at the moment.

Scott finally stands. Stiles looks at him briefly. Scott is crying. He looks lost and afraid. Earlier today, Stiles might have tried to comfort him, might have tried to reassure him.

Earlier today, they both had a parent.

“I am a gentle man of war,” the new threat says, his smile gentling into something almost compassionate. “So I will give you a moment of peace and tranquility with your fallen comrade.” He stands, turns to go, stops. “Oh, and, by the way. The doors to the outside world are now officially open. Feel free to explore the grounds.”

***

“It’s a dead end,” Scott says. He sags against the fence. His chest hurts. He checks his pocket reflexively for his inhaler, but stops when he remembers that one of the psychos crushed it. He looks at Stiles, who is watching the way they had come, hands tight on the bat, face set.

Stiles will fight to the death to protect him, Scott knows. Even if Scott has gotten both their parents killed, he’s still Stiles’ brother, his only friend. He looks around them. The fence is too high, not even Stiles would be able to scale it. They also sadly lack any kind of cutters, or the time to dig under it. He glances back at Stiles, and sees it.

A door. Some kind of cover for an access tunnel or something.

“Stiles, help me!” he barks out as he stumbles over to the door. It’s heavy, almost too heavy. He pulls anyway, chest tightening warningly. It gets a little easier when Stiles joins him, getting his hands in the crack Scott had made and pushing even as Scott pulls. It’s dangerous. If Scott loses his grip, Stiles will lose his hands.

Scott doesn’t say anything. At this point, the danger is a necessary risk.

The door creaks open, just enough.

“Get in,” he tells Stiles.

Stiles looks at him, wordless. He doesn’t need words. Neither of them do.

“Go,” Scott says, and despite everything, he finds it in him to smile. “Give ‘em hell for me, would you?”

A tear slips down Stiles’ face, the first and only one Scott has seen him shed this entire night. The other boy reaches out and clasps his shoulder, leans in close and rests their foreheads together. He says no goodbyes. He says nothing. They breathe each other’s air for a long moment.

His silence says everything.

And then Stiles is gone, slipping down the access tunnel as silent as a ghost.

Scott closes the door, finally lets out the tears he’s been holding back since the moment he realized this was the endgame. “I love you too, man.”

***

Stiles stares at the puppets as they move and chime.

A set up. A goddamn set up.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry.

Mostly though, he wants to hunt down that old pervert and make him eat his own dick before he slits the geezer’s throat.

“In moments of great accomplishments such as these, I feel the need to celebrate,” the smooth voice purrs behind him.

Stiles turns and sees the man, the smart one, behind him. He’s half-naked now, sweat sheening on his firmly muscled chest, biceps something that would normally make Stiles a little weak at the knees. The fucker has a cigar in his mouth, hands fiddling with a book of matches to light it. “I find that the best of times happens at exactly the point we lose track of them. We must train ourselves to extend the moment and learn to live.”

He smiles, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

“‘Smoke in times of rest is a great companion to the solitary soldier.’ You know who said that?”

Stiles doesn’t answer. The next thing he knows, he’s up against a wall, blue-eyes holding him there effortlessly with one hand wrapped around his neck. There’s blood trickling down his face, and his nose hurts like a bitch. Did he get punched?

“ _Do you know who said that?_ ” the man snarls, and for the first time, Stiles sees behind the veneer of the man’s civility. There is insanity there, a great yawning chasm of too much rage, too much, too much.

Stiles laughs. Knows his laughter is more than a touch hysterical. He can’t help it. “Do you really think I give a fuck?”

Blue-eyes blinks, startled out of his rage, almost like no one had ever sassed him before. He releases Stiles, holds up his cigar, staring at it as if he didn’t know where it came from. “It was everyone’s favorite revolutionary Marxist, che Guevara.” His brows furrowed. “Except, I think he smoked a pipe.” He turned that slightly curious look to Stiles. “I always thought I’d look rather pretentious with a pipe.”

Stiles can’t help it. He laughs again.

Blue-eyes’ head cocks slightly. He smiles. “My name is Peter,” he says.

And then there are hands wrapped around Stiles’ neck, squeezing. He panics, instinctively scratching at Peter’s hands. He’s being brought down to the ground, Peter watching him avidly even as Stiles goes for his face, fingers like claws trying to do as much damage as he can. Peter straddles him, riding the bucking of Stiles’ body like a pro, squeezing tighter by the second.

And then he can breathe again.

Stiles coughs and splutters as he tries to breathe. His throat hurts. His lungs hurt. And all the while, Peter is crooning at him, watching with something close to adoration on his face. “Shhh, that’s a good boy.” Those hands, strong and capable of extreme violence, pet him gently. “It’s all okay. Shhh.” Peter gathers him close, holding him in something Stiles might be convinced is a cuddle in a different situation. “Catch your breath. Catch your breath, it’s okay. There you go. Relax, precious.”

Stiles slowly relaxes. He breathes in Peter’s musky scent. In spite of himself, he enjoys the brief moment of rest. He tentatively embraces the man holding him, letting his mind drift, cherishing this last moment of peace.

His hand slowly grasps the handle of the pocketknife in Peter’s back pocket.

Two things happen simultaneously: Stiles snarls even as he pulls out the knife, flicking the blade out and slicing at Peter; and Peter pushes him away, swiftly ducking to the side in the same motion.

The result is a long, thin cut starting at Peter’s hip and curling around and up to his belly-button. Peter watches as blood slips down his stomach.

It is not a deep cut, will likely not even need stitches, but it will bleed like a bitch. Peter chuckles. “I have to say, I do like you Stiles.” He pulls out the other blade. “So resourceful. So _vicious_.”

Stiles grins, readies his stolen blade.

They clash.

Over and over again they strike at each other, vicious and fierce. Eventually they both lose their knives and resort to fists. Peter breaks Stiles’ nose, Stiles gets his hand on Peter’s wound and _digs_. They roll around on the floor like animals, biting and tearing, scratching and clawing. Neither is sure when the biting turns to kissing, when the scratching turns to very heavy petting. Neither is sure when rolling on the floor trying their best to dig knees into sensitive bits becomes frotting against each other, rocking and grinding and clinging to each other.

Both are too lost in each other to hear the voice on the speakers as it bites out: “Weapons down! 31 is now over. Weapons down!”

***

“Thank you all for another marvelous night of 31.”

“So what are we going to do with him?”

“…I will have to get back to you on that one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I got back last night from watching Rob Zombie's new movie, 31, and had to get this out. I'm sorry in advance for any mis-characterizations. Any deviances in the story are because of a) artistic interpretation, and b) I've only seen the movie once and do not have graphic memory. Also, plagiarism is wrong folks, so there. 
> 
> Peter = Doom-Head  
> Stiles = Charly  
> Scott = Roscoe  
> Melissa = Venus
> 
> I also intentionally left the aristos as nameless, shapeless voids. All you get is their dialogue. I want you to determine who would be the master-minds in this bizarre world. :)


	5. Ultimatums, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John may not be the best father in the world, but when his daughter falls in love with a man no one else approves of and her whole world seems to be falling around her ears, John does what good fathers do: he supports his daughter 110%, regardless of his personal feelings.
> 
> Peter Hale just better be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually more to this, but it's split over 16 various notepads, so it might take me a while to finish typing it all up. I'm honestly not sure where I'm taking it, but - hey! - it's something. :)

John isn’t happy. Not at all. He’s not happy about the supernatural shit-storm that’s become his life, and he’s definitely not happy this his daughter – his only child, the only little bit of Claudia he has left in this world – is smack dab right in the center of it all. He’s not happy about how long it took him to believe Stiles when she had tried to explain the truth about all these weird happenings. He's not happy about how quickly he’d verbally slapped her down when she’d tried to tell him that, hey, maybe she liked guys too, despite her long history of crushes on other girls. He was especially not happy that he’d allowed himself to miss so much of her life that by the time he actually attempted to be her father, Stiles was already more than capable and practiced at fending for herself.

But all of this is on John. He had allowed himself to drink too much, allowed himself to work too much, allowed himself to miss too much, because he’d honestly always believed that there would be more time. And he tried to be a good dad despite it all, he truly did. He made sure Stiles know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn’t need to be anything or anyone other than herself, that she didn’t need to conform to any idea or societal convention unless she wanted to do so. He made sure she knew the value of her body and her mind and how not to fall prey to assholes looking for easy pickings. He also made damn sure to sign his baby girl up for several different types of self-defense lessons, until he was sure she could defend herself both physically and verbally. And he always made sure she knew how far he would go to defend and/or avenge her should something happen.

But above all things, he made sure Stiles knew he loved her.

Which is why, when he comes home late one night off a double shift and sees his daughter sitting alone at the kitchen table at 4 am, two glasses of whisky freshly poured, he only sighs. He feels old and tired, and knows that whatever this conversation will be about, it will only serve to make him feel even more old and tired. But have it they will, because how can he deny his daughter the chance to really talk to him, the way they haven’t really…ever?

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” he asks her even as he sits down, snagging a tumbler and looking at the whisky. The kitchen light glints off of the liquid, and not for the first time, he compares it to his daughters lovely eyes. Claudia’s eyes, but not quite. Claudia’s eyes had always been more of a soft cinnamon toned by chocolate. Stiles' eyes were well and truly amber.

Stiles won’t look at him. She’s playing with her fingers – no – she’s playing with a – is that a _ring??_ – turning it around and around and around.

“Stiles?” he asks.

She sighs. “I think I’m in love, daddy,” she tells him softly. “But no one, literally no one, will approve of my being with him, and while I love him enough to be with him anyway, I can’t….”

Her voice breaks, but John doesn’t need her to continue. His daughter doesn’t love lightly or easily. She doesn’t make friends at the drop of a hat, can barely tolerate most people on the best of days. Those she does come to love and trust, she’s clings to with an almost obsessive single-mindedness. It’s not healthy, and definitely not entirely sane, but John can’t exactly complain about it, not when he’s self-aware enough to know that he’s the same way.

He thinks of Claudia again, half-mad and wilder than a feral cat, and the way everyone he’d known had given him the ultimatum of them or her. He’d chosen his wife over his entire extended family, and he’s never regretted it.

Not even once.

He sighs again. “First off,” he starts. “Even if you fall in love with Satan himself, there’s no way I won’t support you, no matter how much I may want to put a bullet or two in him. You’re my only child, the only light left in my life, and as long as he makes you happy and treats you the way you should be treated, I will always support you.”

She still won’t look at him.

“Tell me about him,” he prompts.

Stiles bites her lips and looks conflicted for a long moment.

“He’s in his mid-to-late 30’s,” she starts, darting a swift gaze at him.

John carefully doesn’t let any kind of reaction to that show on his face, keeping it as open and accepting as he can for a man who’s been up for close to 20 hours straight. Internally, however, he is already going over every male acquaintance he’s ever seen around his daughter, and isn’t liking the results.

Seeing no reaction, Stiles finally stops playing with her fingers and looks at him. “He likes to read, doesn’t really watch t.v., and is alarmingly good at video games for an adult. He loves to cook, especially for me. He’s got something of a refined taste for life – clothes, furnishings, you name it, he likely has some of the best of the best, but he’s not ostentatious about it. He buys things to use them, not to display them. He’s wicked smart and annoyingly clever, with a ruthless edge that can make him one of the most dangerous people I’ve ever met.” She pauses, takes a big breath, meets his gaze determinedly. “But he’s also remarkably sweet, looks out for me when I forget to do it for myself, and is in some desperate need of Stilinski hugs on a daily basis.”

“Has he touched you?”

Stiles flushes. “Not sexually, not yet.” She clears her throat. “He gives me hugs and cuddles whenever I want them. He holds my hand. We’ve kissed.” He flush deepens. “We’ve kissed a lot.”

“Define the ‘yet’?”

“I want him to,” she says clearly, still blushing up a storm, but serious and steady all the same. Solid, like she's taken a long time to ponder over her choices and come to a conclusion she can deal with. “I want …I want _everything_ , but he says he won’t touch me that way until I’m honest with you about us.”

John nods approvingly. “Smart man.” Still, the idea of a man that old putting his hands on his precious daughter has something inside of him squirming in something not unlike rage. He tosses back the whisky, stares at the ceiling, mentally reviewing his already short list of potential candidates and crossing them off one by one.

“Peter Hale,” he finally says.

Stiles pales, but nods.

John breathes in deeply. He leans back, stares at his daughter. He thinks over everything he knows about the man, both before and after the fire, and thinks he’s not nearly as surprised as he should be. They say that opposites attract, but John also knows that in some cases, like calls to like. Peter Hale had both sayings in compliance with this thing he’s trying to build with Stiles, the both of them similar in all the ways that mattered in the long run, but different enough to keep them both interested and on their toes.

He sighs.

“I want to meet him. Not as a werewolf or as the man I probably should have incarcerated if even half the things I’ve ever heard about him are true, but as the prospective partner for my only daughter. Bring him over for dinner on Saturday. I have a vacation day in.”

Stiles nods slowly, watching him with large, vulnerable eyes that speak more than her mouth ever could.

John leans over, grasps her hands. “If you lose your friends over this Stiles,” he tells her softly, slowly, “then they were never really your friends. And no matter what happens, you will always be my daughter.”

She smiles then, slowly, and it’s like seeing the first glimpse of day after a long, cold, bitter night. He watches the way that smile glitters in her eyes, and realizes that he hasn’t seen that particular sparkle un-tempered by grief or sharpened by the sarcasm that came so naturally to her ever since his Stiles had been a little girl twirling around the house, shrieking with laughter with her mother right beside her. And that’s when he thinks quietly to himself that even if Peter Hale did turn out to be the devil, John would bless this union with everything he had so long as his daughter kept smiling like that.


	6. Change the Host, Evict the Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter proposes an alternate method of expelling the Nogitsune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something that's been on my mind ever since I re-watched Season 3B. <3

Stiles waits in front of Peter’s apartment door, heart beating what feels like a thousand miles a minute. She doesn’t know much about the supernatural, but she knows Peter, better even than she currently knows herself, and she knows that if anyone can help her, it’s him. Deaton’s provided her with a temporary cure, but it won’t last.

 

She knows it won’t. Even now, she can feel it twisting inside her head, strengthening.

 

The door opens. Peter stares at her for a long moment. She wonders briefly if she looks like she currently feels: half-dead, miserable, and more than a little nauseous, but doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to ask. The way she looks is written all over Peter’s mannerisms: he fails to make his usual joking banter with her, fails to smirk at her in that sexy-all-knowing way of his, fails to do anything but stand aside and let her shuffle past him.

 

She hears him shut and lock the door behind her, but surprisingly, she trusts him. Peter, surprisingly, actually cares about her. Stiles doesn’t know the exact extent to which this affection goes, but she doesn’t need to know. It is enough that it simply is.

 

He leads her to the kitchen and makes her sit at a little table-unit while he starts making hot cocoa. She watches him in silence. At any other time, she might be swooning over this display of domesticity, but right now, she doesn’t feel much at all really right now.

 

Eventually, he places a mug in front of her and sits down. “Drink,” he tells her.

 

She does. Stiles doesn’t really taste it – everything tastes like ash nowadays – but it’s warm, and it makes her uneasy stomach settle. “Thanks,” she says between sips.

 

Peter watches her for a long moment before leaning forward. “The Nogitsune can be expelled, Stiles,” he says softly, gently. “Safely even, without requiring your death or the death of another.”

 

Stiles immediately starts tearing up. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be that vulnerable in front of anyone, but she can’t help it. “How?” she asks. “How can it be expelled? Deaton said –”

 

Peter snarls. “What Deaton knows about the supernatural is only what his little books tell him. There is more to our world than his precious balance, and he has his own goals and agendas, no matter what happy-friends bull-shit he keeps feeding Scott.”

 

Stiles stares at her cocoa. She watches the way the liquid shivers in the cup, belatedly realizing that it’s because she’s shaking.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says. “It can be done. I swear to you, on my own life, that it can be done. In fact, by utilizing my method, you would in fact be killing 2 birds with 1 stone – you’ll protect you friends and family by expelling the 1000 year old demon living inside your mind, and…” he trails off.

 

“…and?”

 

“…and you’ll give me a pack again.”

 

Stiles looks at him. Peter is watching her. She trembles harder. Peter’s voice is gentle, soft, coaxing. But his eyes… he’s watching her with the full force of his wolf behind his eyes, hungry.

 

“I’m an omega, Stiles. I’m not feral, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Without a pack, I’m a dead man walking – if my own madness and need for the safety becoming an alpha capable of building my own pack doesn’t get me first, any hunter worth their gun will.”

 

“What do I have to do?”

 

Peter smiles. It is not a nice smile, but Stiles doesn’t mind. Peter is not a nice man. He has never claimed to be a nice man. “Mate with me.”

 

“…You want to _fuck_ me?” she blurts out.

 

Peter rolls his eyes, leans back. “Don’t be so crude. It’s not just physical sex, Stiles. It’s a binding, a forging if you will, of 2 into 1.” He reaches out and curls one large hand around her own. She stares at the size difference, how delicate and fragile her pale hand looks in his. “As your mate, I could never hurt you, betray you, leave you, or even forget about you. Even if something did to me what the Darach did to Derek, I would still be yours first.”

 

“And vice versa?”

 

Peter nods. “And vice versa.”

 

“…why me?”

 

“Because.”

 

She frowns, pulls her hand out of his grasp. “That’s not an answer.”

 

“Isn’t it?” He chuckles. “Stiles, I was out of my mind as an alpha. I was mad with grief and rage, and had no pack bonds whatsoever to stabilize me. I bit Scott without even the smallest consideration as to whom I was biting, and then just abandoned him to learn on his own or die. I ripped Lydia apart and infected her because it suited my needs at the time. I would have rampaged across the entire town if you hadn’t of stopped me. And yet, I never hurt you, despite ample opportunity to do so, did I?”

 

He had scared her, but if she was honest with herself…. “No, you didn’t.” It is said softly.

 

“I scared you, yes, and if there is anything I regret about that time, it’s the way I scared you so, but fear has never stopped you, Stiles. Your fear, in fact, makes you even more dangerous.” Peter’s smile softens. “You’re loyal to a fault, resourceful, ruthless when need be, and so very, very smart. Your intuition is second to none, you have a spine of steel when it comes to things and people you care about, and your first instinct when faced with a threat is to kill it dead. I want that, Stiles. All of it, all of _you_.”

 

“How…” she can feel the blush as it spreads across her face and clears her throat. “How do you know this will free me from the Nogitsune?”

 

Peter’s eyes darken and his voice takes on a husky quality. “Because you’ll be _mine_ , Stiles. Tied to me body, mind, and soul. No one, _nothing_ , will ever have a piece of you, a place _in_ you, ever again. ‘Change the host, evict the fox’. You don’t want to become a werewolf, a were-anything, do you? Then this is the only way left.”

 

She takes in the way he looks at her, and for the first time in weeks feels something that isn’t nausea, despair, or fear. She feels relief, and the small beginnings of a fire in her belly. “How soon can it be done?”

 

Peter smiles.


	7. In Fondest Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They took someone from her, erased him from her existence like he never was.
> 
> Only, she's not like the others. She _knows_ when they did not. 
> 
> This time, she won't lie down and take it. She wants him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I read The Theory of Lost Things by WritersAreLiars, and it is so good. Read it and review it and leave the author much love for writing it. It is seriously the best written Steter fic I've read in a long while. It has everything. 
> 
> This little short was inspired by it. It has nothing to do with the fic really, and is definitely not as well written, but it was inspired by it. I hope you all like it. I may flesh it out a bit later, but definitely not right now.

She wakes, drowsy and comfortable in a bed not her own. It takes her a little bit to recognize this fact. She luxuriates for a long moment in her cocoon of warmth, wondering absently how long it’s been since she’d last had such a good night’s sleep. She breathes in the combined scents of some kind of laundry detergent and a heady male musk that makes something in her stomach clench in want, and it is this more than anything that wakes her up completely.

Because she doesn’t know that scent.

Because her bed isn’t this big, doesn’t have sheets that feel this sinfully good against her bare skin.

Because she doesn’t sleep naked.

She jerks up, blanket falling to reveal that, yes, she is sleeping naked in someone else’s bed.

For a brief, lingering moment she feels outright terror. She doesn’t know how she got here. She doesn’t know what happened. She definitely didn’t drink last night. But as she’s busy trying to prevent the mother of all panic attacks from occurring, mentally reviewing everything she can remember about last night, she notices that there is something wrong.

Something missing.

A lot of somethings missing, the longer she thinks about it.

The last thing Stiles remembers with ice cold clarity is …her father looking at her like she is a ghost, asking her what she was doing in his house. The rest comes in patches. The blank spots are different though from a possession, from her possession. Before, when the Nogitsune took control, her memories had a liquid quality, all of them bleeding into each other until even the Nogitsune had trouble differentiating between fiction and reality. Her blank spots then had been cold voids nothing touched, no feelings however fleeting, no words no matter how quiet, no places or sights to be seen. Just blank emptiness in her mind.

This though… it’s like trying to recall a movie you’ve only seen once long ago and getting ghostly after-images, fleeting glimpses of something that might have been but you couldn’t be sure. There are impressions, snippets, but mostly grey static where once should have been a clear memory.

She clutches her hair and screams into the silence, frustrated and scared and more than a bit angry.

The Hunt went into her head.

The Hunt stole someone from her.

Stiles gets out of bed with something close to murder brightening in her heart. She absently notes the dried semen smeared on the inside of her thighs. Someone very important then. Decisively she nods, then heads to the bathroom to clean up.

No more playing around.

***

It takes her only a few hours to track down the number. Stiles is resourceful when she needs to be, and though every memory of this man is tinged with hate and fear, she knows when she needs help.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.

“Deucalion, Alpha of Alphas, Demon Wolf, Harbinger of the End,” she intones softly.

“…Who is this?”

“You don’t remember me, but I’m sure you remember Beacon Hills. You came here and fucked with the local pack.”

“I remember.”

“Good. I’m calling in the favor you owe.”

“I owe no one in Beacon Hills.”

“No. But you do owe the Nemeton, and it is calling due.”

“…Give me an address and I’ll be there in 7 hours.”

“613 Hillcrest Avenue, Forest Hills Apartments, Apartment 6B.”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Stiles Stilinski, Alpha Deucalion. Anything else can wait until we meet in person.”

“Very well.”

***

Deucalion is not without his own resources. He calls in several favors, reaching Beacon Hills in only 4 hours. He wouldn’t bother, but the voice on the phone had spoken the truth. He could feel it, stronger now ever since the phone-call, the pull tugging him back to Beacon Hills.

The Nemeton was calling, and it wasn’t taking no for an answer.

He uses the remaining 3 hours to read through every reply to his e-mails he can. Not surprisingly, he gets a fat load of nothing. Something erased this Stiles Stilinski from the very fabric of existence, though her father was still alive and records of her mother still lingered in the right circles.

Some things could be drawn from that little bit of information though. Her father was a police officer, so at the very least this Stiles knew her right and wrong and the consequences of her actions. Her mother, however, was a former grey-witch with strong suspected ties to several black-covens. This tells him that Stiles will have some sort of gift, however watered-down it may be.

He also makes a pit-stop and visits the Nemeton in person, following the pull. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do much more than squat in front of the stump and place his hand on the aged wood.

It’s enough, for this tree.

Images flash through his mind, a young, vivacious human girl with amber eyes only a few shades off from beta gold. The Nemeton can’t speak, not in human words, and the images are distorted, reflected weirdly, but it gets its point across: _important, help her, special_ , **_mine_**.

He pulls his hand back. “It will be done,” he tells it.

The pull eases, but does not leave. Deucalion suspects it is a type of tether, a leash binding him to the Nemeton until he does as commanded. He stands and heads back.

He has a girl to visit.

***

The Nemeton did her no justice, Deucalion thinks later as he studies the girl. _Stiles_. She is young, yes, but also not, some lingering sense of an age older than even he within her eyes. He does not know what she is, but he also knows that she isn’t human. Not quite, not completely. Like a shift halted before it’s reached its conclusion, she has all the hallmarks of being a were, but also none of them. It’s baffling, but a good puzzle all the same.

He liked puzzles, once upon a time.

“What do you know of the Wild Hunt?” she asks him.

He is honestly speechless for a long moment. “What have you done to draw them here?”

She looks at him, and there is nothing friendly in her eyes. “I have done nothing,” she says, voice artic. “But a certain Demon Wolf came to one of the few places a Nemeton keeping a 1,000 year old fox demon spirit prisoner sat on crossed ley lines and brought on his heels a Darach who offered unwilling blood sacrifices to it in order to steal its power for herself. Followed rather quickly by a Druid who went completely off his rocker when he suggested that both a True Alpha and a Spark sacrifice themselves to locate the damn thing, opening up doors that should never have been opened, resulting in a True Alpha with no control and a Spark possessed by said 1,000 year old fox demon spirit.”

She grins at him, her teeth bared in a feral mockery of a smile. “And let’s not forget the Dread Doctors awakening again, or the Calveras and their special brand of fuckery! Or Kate Argent, somehow resurrected from the dead and invoking Mayan/Aztec curses left, right and center on born wolves.”

And then her brow furrows. “And….there was something else… someone else… I can’t remember...” She trails off.

Point made. Deucalion sighs. “The Wild Hunt in traditional tales were made up of either elves, fairies, or the dead, depending on which region you asked. The Wild Hunt was typically seen as an omen of war, plague, or death. In some tales, to see the Hunt is to be whisked away by it, taken to the realm of the dead or the fae. At its head traditionally rode Woden – Odin – but other tales mention Krampus, Bercta, Holle, Herod, Cain, Annwn, and Gabriel.”

She nods at him, likely already knowing this.

“In truth, the Hunt is all of these things and none of them. The Fae Courts have long ago cut off all contact with the mortal plane, but the idea and practice of the Wild Hunt lingered. The current Hunt is primarily made up of various supernatural beings, all of which whom have been touched by death and survived, or returned as the case may be with some. They are made up of the forgotten and the damned, those who have nothing left but their rage and bitterness and need to find others such as themselves.”

Stiles is staring at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, face pale, the very picture of frightened human prey. But something about her is still setting off alarm bells in his mind, telling him to watch his step. She leans forward, places a picture on the table in front of him, leans back.

“Who is he?”

Deucalion looks down, and can’t help the startled bark of laughter that escapes him. Peter Hale. Of course. “Why?” he asks.

“They stole him from me.” The answer is mild. The look in her eyes is not.

“And how do you know this?” And then he frowns. “And how did you get this? Anyone the Hunt erases is wiped completely, pictures included.”

She smiles, bitterly. “He was already erased before. It got him out of Eichen on a technicality, and bought him a new life under a new name. They were thorough at erasing who he really is from existence. I don’t know his name, his age, what species he is, or how I know him aside from what I can infer from where and how I woke up without him, but his alternate identity is still around.”

Deucalion is already nodding. “They couldn’t erase that. Their power works only on true names.”

Her brow furrows. “Then how did they erase me? I haven’t gone by my true name since I was 6.”

“Ah, but Stiles is your _chosen_ name, is it not? You would no longer even answer to your birth name, would you?” Deucalion smiles. “Sometimes chosen names are more powerful than the real thing, and they recognize power above all things.”

Stiles sighs and closes her eyes.

Deucalion studies her. “How did you know he was stolen from you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Stiles smiles bitterly, but doesn’t look at him. “When you’ve had a 1,000 year old fox demon living in your mind for 6 months, two things happen: you are forced to face and come to terms with every deepest, darkest, most hidden aspect of yourself, and you learn to recognize when your mind is being fucked with.”

Deucalion nearly chokes on thin air. “You survived a possession by a Nogitsune?”

“Define survived.”

“You are sitting here before me, breathing the same air I breathe. I can hear your heart beat and your blood pulse, and you do not smell like something that has crawled out of its grave.”

She laughs. “My original body crumbled to dust before my very eyes. The Nogitsune split us, crafted this body out of shadow and magic.” She lifts a hand up towards the ceiling and studies it. “It’s not right. All of my childhood scars – wiped off. The skin is too sensitive, too new, and calluses built up over years are now gone. I’m three inches shorter, my hips are too wide, my fingers too long. The only thing it really got right was my face.”

And what can he say to that?

“I woke up this morning in a strange man’s bed naked as the day I was born with his seed smeared between my thighs. There were no signs of struggle, no bruising or blood, so it was something I willingly consented to.” It is said blandly. “Ever since the possession, I’ve been more aware of myself in a way most never are. I know all my ugly corners and hidden smudges. I can’t lie to myself the way others might. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I had given myself in such a way to anyone, then they are mine as I am theirs.”

She turns her gaze to him, and that niggling alarm bell in the back of his mind goes haywire.

“I will turn this entire world into a graveyard if it means I get him back.”

***

Deucalion is worth his weight in gold.

Not only is he an exceptionally powerful Alpha Werewolf, one who is not afraid to get his hands a little bloody for a cause or two, but he is also a very well-connected and well-financed one.

The Wild Hunt can’t be killed. Not by any means known to man. They’ve been touched by death, marked by it, and if death cannot keep them, what else can anyone do?

Quite a bit, actually.

See, regardless of anything else they may be, they still have physical bodies and physical limitations. Set a trap of mortal magic and iron, and they fall prey same as anything else would.

They don’t capture the leader. He’s made of something _other_ that not even the smartest of Deucalion’s contacts can identify. The others have names and faces, were once mortal creatures like Stiles, but not the leader. They instead pick one of the smaller Huntsman, one of the stragglers in the back. Stiles taunts and plays bait, using hastily-learnt magic to blind her to all but him, luring him away from the Hunt and into the strike zone. She keeps out of the way as Deucalion brings him down off his horse, wrangling him into their covered circle. Once there, Stiles says the binding words, believing with everything she has that not only will the Huntsman be trapped, but he will have no power over her.

She kneels in front of him. “You and yours took something from me,” she tells him calmly. “I would have him back if it’s all the same.”

The Huntsman growls at her. “He is ours, claimed and chained. Nothing you can do will change that.”

Stiles smiles. She taps into the Void hidden in the depths of her, the lingering aspect of the Nogitsune that still occupies her in a way nothing else ever will. She keeps smiling as she reaches into the circle and places her hands over the Huntsman’s temples. “Oh,” she says softly, “I hope you don’t mind if I try anyway.”

She feels nothing when the Huntsman screams.

***

He watches the girl walk away from his writhing brother bound by salt and iron and sheer stubborn will.

He wonders absently if this is what fear feels like.

He hopes the Master knows what he’s doing, unleashing this upon them.


	8. After the Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles didn't expect this after the Nogitsune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some rambling drabble I found. I'm still not sure what to make of it, tbh.

This is not how Stiles expected possession by a 1000 year old fox spirit/demon to end.

He expected the recrimination. He expected the long, awkward silences. He expected the way Scott couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore. He expected the way he’s slowly but surely being pushed out of the pack’s social circle.

Allison is a gaping maw growing deeper between all of them, Scott and their friends on one side, Stiles on the other.

The problem is that Stiles has never been a morally straight person to begin with, and the introduction to the supernatural and all of the distinctive shades of gray its inhabitants operate and live by has only further drawn him down the “path of the wicked.” In other words, he isn’t Scott McCall. Stiles can’t operate on his level of trust and faith. He can’t mentally wrap his head around the mental logistics behind letting Deucalion go but forever reviling Peter Hale. He can’t figure out why Scott’s so friendly with Noshiko when she’s the very reason the Nogitsune was running around Beacon Hills to begin with, but blames him for being possessed and not having the power to stop it.

Never mind that Stiles has done the impossible and survived his possession intact and relatively sane.

Never mind that Stiles is drowning in the guilt for all the things his body has done without his consent.

No, all that matters to Scott and the others is that their precious Allison is dead.

Dead.

So, yes. Stiles expected all of this. He accepted it as his lot in life and was determined to ride it out as long as he could, hoping that at the very least, the final separation wouldn’t happen until after graduation, and he could blame the disconnect on loss of contact during college and growing up.

Stiles had not, however, expected Peter.

He should have. If he’d been entirely in his right mind, he would have.

But after Nō, he’s not altogether there. Stiles is a raving mass of guilt and rage, fear and determination. He has trouble keeping food down, has trouble sleeping, has trouble holding onto his temper. The only thing he can do competently is plaster on a false smile and babble – apparently no one except Peter knows the difference.

And in the midst of it all, there is Peter.

Peter doesn’t talk to him much. But he is constantly watching. Stiles is convinced that the older man even stakes out his bedroom window, an eternal guardian against anyone or anything that might try and force its way in. He knows Peter follows him around town, knows that he lurks outside of the school, knows that he follows Stiles on his nightly walks through the preserve.

It should make him feel smothered. It should creep him out. He should go running to Scott or his dad or even Chris Argent to put a stop to it.

It doesn’t. Stiles doesn’t.

Whenever he thinks of Peter, or catches sight of him lurking around, all he gets is a warm rush of relief and fondness. He’s _relieved_ that Peter is watching him, because he knows what Peter is. Coming back from the dead may have jumpstarted his mental capabilities, but at the core of him, Peter will always be a monster. Cunning, ruthless, fiercely protective of what he considers his.

And Stiles is his, has been truthfully ever since that night at the school, when Stiles couldn’t simply run away after trapping the beast in the boiler room, but absolutely had to look and see what he’d caught. Had to sass the monster, had to defy him. Stiles looks at Peter and sees what everyone else refuses to: Peter is a monster yes, but he doesn’t act unprovoked. Never has, never will. For everything he does, everything he says, there is a _reason_ , even if no one – not even Stiles – understands it at the time.

And Stiles knows that he has time to heal, time to grow, time to understand this new variation of himself. He knows that Peter’s attentions won’t disappear simply because Stiles isn’t ready for much else other than their current stalker-stalkee routine. Peter won’t force anything on him – he never has, not even when completely batshit looney. Peter will wait, as long as Stiles needs.

This is not how Stiles expected possession by a 1000 year old fox spirit/demon to end.

Stiles did not expect anyone except perhaps his dad to continue to want him around. He did not expect to find anyone who made him feel safe. He did not expect to find himself slowly falling for anyone, let alone Peter Hale.

He expected the recrimination. He expected the long, awkward silences. He expected the way Scott couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore. He expected the way he’s slowly but surely being pushed out of the pack’s social circle.

Stiles didn’t expect the way he doesn’t mind one bit if the pack abandons him.

He’s got Peter. 


	9. Dangerous Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is honestly glad he respected her decision to say no. She doesn't need teeth or claws or inhuman strength.
> 
> Stiles is dangerous enough without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 in one day! Lol.
> 
> Unfinished. This was originally written halfway through season 2 was airing, and a serious case of writer's block happened. It's been living on my hard-drive gathering dust for years now, because I kept hoping I could get back to it, but no dice. 
> 
> Free to anyone who wants to use it, just like everything else here. :)

It’s been two weeks since Derek becomes the alpha, and things have already escalated to the point where she actively misses having psycho-killer Uncle Peter running around like a creepy pedophile. Two weeks, and she not only regrets bringing those Molotov cocktails, but she also regrets her rather asinine decision to trust the remaining Argents to be sane, civilized representatives of what sounded like a supernaturally aware police force.

Stiles blames herself for that one – she knows better than to trust things she hasn’t researched the hell out of and seen with her own two eyes. And of all the remaining Argents (aside from murderous Grandpa extraordinaire Gerard), Allison is slowly revealing herself to be Kate version 2.0, Mama Argent is an ice-cold block of murder, hatred, and self-righteousness, and Chris is so pussy-whipped it would take a miracle, the removal of all female Argents in his vicinity, and possibly multiple blows to the head with a 2 by 4 before he’d learn to start thinking for himself.

Scott, of course, is firmly entrenched up Allison’s ass; Lydia and Jackson are both acting like nothing ever happened – both are ignoring Stiles like she doesn’t even exist while at the same time adopting Allison into their personal circle of friends; Danny never knew what was going on, as he had never really been Stiles’ friend or confidant anyway; and Derek, well.

The less said about Derek, the better.

She likes him, in that she simultaneously wants to wrap him up in bubble wrap and stash him in her closet to protect him from all the scary shit that dwells out in the real world while at the same time wanting to be the reason why he needs to be protected.

Seriously. He’s gotten her dad involved in all this supernatural bullshit, even if indirectly, and the day her dad gets hurt because of Derek fucking Hale, Stiles will raze this fucking town down around Derek’s ears so fast he won’t even have time to appreciate the vast mistake he made.

…so Stiles may have a bit of a psychotic streak in her. So what?

Two weeks, that’s all it takes for Stiles to start seriously considering mass homicide as a justified means of cleaning house.

And then she runs over Peter Hale.

Literally.

***

Now, last Stiles saw Peter Hale, he was a crispy critter getting his throat slashed open by his nephew. Last time she checked, however, dead men don’t lurch out of the underbrush and stand in front of her jeep as she’s barreling down the road, furious and more than a bit upset at being ditched, yet again, for Miss Budding Psychopath Mach Two.

Honestly, she thinks as she pokes his limp form with a stick, he doesn’t look much better. A little more pink than charred-black, but a lot more oozy. There’s blood, and pus, and some black tar-like substance leaking out of his body. She honestly doesn’t even want to know what it is, but it’s there, and it’s nasty-smelling. Worse than anything Derek leaked in her beloved jeep. Stiles pokes him again, harder this time, jumping a little when he twitches, blue-blue-blue eyes creaking open to stare at her, but he doesn’t do anything else.

“Hmmmm….” She frowns thoughtfully. “You’re healing,” she tells him. “I’m honestly not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I can leave you here for some other unsuspecting soul to run over you, and on another, I could call the Argents or Derek and make goddamn sure you’re put down correctly this time.” She cocks her head, squatting so that she’s even closer. The smell is awful, and she retches a little.

Peter just stares at her.

“But I think you and I both know I’m going with option #3, don’t we?” she asks him. “You and I, we understand each other, don’t we? The lengths we’ll go to for the people we love, to protect and avenge them….” She trails off.

Peter blinks.

She leans in closer. “This time, you’ll play by my rules, Peter Hale, or so help me God, I will call Gerard Argent right now and watch him end you, do you understand? Blink twice for yes.”

Understandably, Peter blinks twice.

Stiles smiles a little. “This is going to hurt,” she tells him.

***

Peter takes a long time to heal. He’s bedridden for most of the month, secreted away in Stiles’ basement. He’s had worse though. Even though Stiles is no trained professional, and clearly has a sadistic streak, an unforgiving nature, and a clear resentment for the way he’d hauled her about when he’d been an alpha, she is still miles better than his last nurse.

At least Stiles doesn’t starve him, making sure he gets fed almost 6 times a day – “werewolf-healing uses up a lot of energy, doesn’t it? Is that why you guys have a faster metabolism???” – with filling, high-carb and protein-rich foods. Stiles also doesn’t… well. She doesn’t _use_ him, or play with his body as if he was some sort of blow-up doll incapable of feeling. She also doesn’t talk around him like he’s not even there, or worse, like he’s mentally deficient.

Stiles may grip too hard, may rub the burn salve too deep, sharp nails _accidentally_ reopening wounds, may make the water too hot or cold when she runs him a bath, but Peter lets her have her small, petty revenges.

Because the thing is, she is right. He does understand her, understands her entirely too well. Understands that the only reason he is still living is because she needs him for something, something that is making her lose weight rapidly, making her lose sleep, and making her tremble in combined fear and rage. He doesn’t know what it is yet, as she is remarkably close-mouthed about whatever it is, but Peter is patient. He can wait. She’ll have to tell him sooner or later.

He knows whatever it is, he’ll do it for her. He told her the truth that night, half-mad though he may have been at the time. He _does_ like her and he is glad he didn’t force the bite on her.

She’s already dangerous enough.

***

“Dangerous enough” is an opinion of Stiles Peter Hale unknowingly shares with his nephew.

Derek’s not a fool. He sees the way Stiles watches him and his newly bitten pack. He sees the way she watches the Argents, all of them, even Allison. He sees the way she watches Scott. He sees the way her bright eyes darken, the way her crazed heart-beats and jumpy body stills, the way her jaws clench, and the way her fingers curl. He is an apex predator, descended from a long line of apex predators, and yet something in the back of his mind screams at him to be wary.

He was never meant to be an Alpha, was never trained how to handle the power, was never told how consuming it can be. He feels sorry for his uncle now, monster though he may have become, constantly wondering how much of his uncle’s actions were his own, and how much was driven by his instincts.

All Derek sees now is prey. Soft, oblivious, weak little fleshbags just waiting to feel the prick of his claws, the clench of his teeth. He tries so hard to keep that part of him under wraps, to not let even an inch of that infect him, but sometimes it gets out. He does things while lost in the haze of instinctual behavior, things that makes Stiles watch him like a snake poising to strike.

He wonders over and over again how Scott, a being so inherently good, ended up as friends with a girl like Stiles, and can’t think of anything that could possibly explain it.  


	10. Pack orgy with feels!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” she begs him.
> 
> “Shh, precious,” he soothes. It’s the first thing he’s ever said to her. “I’ll give you what you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somewhat a heavy piece. 
> 
> Basic premise was that verbally-abused Stiles gets dragged to a yearly "pack-bonding" party hosted by Uncle Peter. Unknowing to either Derek (her verbally abusive boyfriend) or herself, the reason she's invited is because Peter wants her for himself, and the pack is more than willing to see him get what he wants.
> 
> Que best sex of Stiles' life, where in one night Peter makes her feel more valued and precious than the entire time she's ever spent with Derek.
> 
> Que some hasty decisions made in the heat of the moment that turn out not too shabby.

They pull up in front of Derek’s uncle’s house, where many cars were already parked outside. Still not looking at each other, both on the edge of something horrible, jaws locked tight and hands fisted at their sides, they get out of the car and walk up to the front entrance. Stiles doesn’t even look at Derek as he rings the doorbell.

It is Talia Hale who answers the door, which makes things more than a little awkward for Stiles. She can still hear Talia’s voice in the back of her head, how she wasn’t good enough for her boy, how she was dragging Derek down. She intellectually knows that Talia hadn’t meant half of what she had said that night, that the woman had been distraught over the loss of her youngest child and looking to lash out at the closest available victim.

But that didn’t make the words hurt any less.

Especially when Derek had never said a word in her defense.

They stand there looking at each other for a long time, before Stiles sighs. “Look,” she says, “This was obviously a bad idea, so I’m just gonna go, alright? Derek, you can do whatever.”

She makes it as far as the steps before Talia’s hand is wrapped tight around her upper arm. “No, don’t go, please.” The older woman’s grip is tight, but not so tight that Stiles can’t pull away if she wants to. “Please, Stiles, come inside.”

And maybe it’s the use of her preferred name, the name that most of the adults in her life refuse to call her by, but Stiles allows herself to be led into Peter’s house, into a very large room, in which there was little furniture, but a great many mattresses, pillows, and cushions spread over the floor.

The extended pack had certainly not waited for her and Derek to arrive. In one corner a pair of women she doesn’t recognize are locked in a 69, enjoying each other slowly. Near them, Laura Hale is dreamily suckling on the cock of a man in front of her, while another fucks her energetically from behind. As Stiles looks around the room, she sees other couples in the middle of various sex acts, some of whom she knows, most of whom she doesn’t; all of them apparently enjoying themselves immensely.

One man lingers on the edge of the proceedings, stalking around silently, eyes bright, electric-blue, studying each couple with predatory focus. He makes no move to join anyone, despite the leaking erection between his legs. Each group he passes by runs a hand down his legs, scenting him, marking him, but otherwise they pay him no attention.

He catches Stiles’ attention immediately.

She is being led to the center of the room by Talia, quickly joined by Cora and some other, nameless woman that shares the Hale jawline and Derek’s light green-grey-blue eyes. All three of them remove Stiles’ clothing gently from her, then lead her over to a particularly large pile of cushions, where she is placed in a comfortable position on her belly. She feels vulnerable and exposed, but never once does her attention waver from the predator making his rounds through the groups of writhing bodies.

She knows who he is.

Peter Hale, Derek’s uncle, the owner of this house. Part of the pack, but not. Alpha, but not. She has even heard that he had been _dead_ once or twice, brought back to life through his own cunning and sheer stubborn determination to survive.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Derek being led to a chair in a corner farthest from her, lap and rising cock already being claimed by a leggy blonde. Stiles frowns and tries to swallow down the hurt and the anger. This is what they are here for, after all. She has no right to feel hurt or angry that Derek has already found someone to occupy his time, while she is bent over some cushions being prepped to be fucked and fucked _hard_ by whoever would have her.

But Derek’s words won’t stop repeating in her head. _‘I suppose you’ll get **someone**.’_

She folds her arms and tucks her head into them, breathing in the scents of sex and sweat, listening to people moaning all around her. The longer it goes on, the less she feels like being here. Derek’s made damn sure over the course of their relationship that she was merely ‘pretty’ at best, good for nothing more than a warm hole to stick his cock into. Surrounded by the could-be-supermodels of his extended family, all happily fucking themselves stupid around her, she feels even more ugly and childish than Derek could have ever make her feel on her own.

She’s absolutely oblivious to the way Peter’s watching her as he makes his rounds, oblivious to the building anticipation in every single one of the wolves around her. As each group is acknowledged by Peter and acknowledges in return, each turns their eyes to the human woman-child in the center of the room, waiting. They know what will happen tonight; they know that by the end of the night one of their strongest wolves will finally claim a mate.

The only other one completely oblivious to what’s going to happen is Derek, who doesn’t understand why his mother insisted Stiles come to this. By the time he manages to tear his attention away from the blonde riding his cock, it’s too late.

Peter is already approaching Stiles from behind. His intentions are written in every movement. For as long as Derek’s been going to these pack-bonding parties, he’s never once seen Peter take another, male or female. The older man keeps to himself, watches everyone, scents them and is scented in return, but never indulges. But here he is, eyes glowing bright as he kneels behind Derek’s girlfriend, nostrils flaring and a subvocal-growl rumbling in his chest as he reaches out and touches her pale, unmarked flesh. Derek looks around, sees the rest of his pack watching, to a one partially shifted and leaning forward, eager and anticipatory.

And he _knows_.

And part of him wants to rage and scream about how he had her first, she is _his_ , even if he doesn’t particularly want her. Part of him wants to throw the leggy blonde off his dick and tear his uncle away from Stiles, keep the alpha from claiming her, because he knows his uncle, and if Peter claims her, Derek will never get another taste of that perfect cunt.

But the vast majority of him knows that even if he did, it wouldn’t just be his uncle he’d have to fight. The way he’s treated Stiles has long been a bone of contention between Cora and Laura and him. And now, looking at the rest of his pack, even his own mother, waiting with eager breath to see his uncle finally claim a mate for himself, Derek knows that if he should interfere, they would all turn on him.

So he’s forced to watch as Stiles startles at his uncle’s touch. He’s forced to watch as Peter her trembling body with gentle caresses. He’s forced to watch the way Peter gently turns her over so that she can see who is touching her.

He’s forced to watch the way Stiles responds to Peter the way she’s never once responded to him.

As for Stiles, she thinks she may have died and gone to heaven. The way Peter looks at her, as if she’s the only thing in the room worth looking at. The way he touches her, gentle and reverent, like she’s some sort of treasure. More than that, it’s the way she knows this man could have had his pick of anyone in this room, all of whom – even his own sister – would have gladly dropped to their knees for him, and yet, here he is, kneeling between her legs.

He gentles her through her first orgasm, teasing erogenous zones she didn’t even know she had, never once touching the more obvious spots. She’s aching by the end of it, wanting in ways she never had with Derek, arching into his touch and begging for more, for anything.

Peter smiles. It is a wicked smile, full of teeth and dangerous intent, but Stiles doesn’t care. Not even when those too-white teeth are closing around her tit, nibbling almost too hard, but at the same time not hard enough, agile tongue flicking over the caught flesh. She wonders absently what that tongue could do in other places, and doesn’t have long to wait.

The sight of him between her thighs is enough to push her to the cusp again. His warm breath ghosting against her wet sex is quite possibly the most erotic thing she’s ever felt. She has to prop herself up on her elbows, has to watch as he breathes in her most intimate of scents, eyes closing in apparent bliss. Has to watch, almost disbelievingly as he settles in for the long haul, face practically buried between her folds. Has to watch even as she cries out at the feel of him devouring her.

By the time he finally eases into her, she’s a sobbing wreck, over-sensitive and over-spent but needing him inside her anyway. She clings to him desperately, completely unmoored emotionally and in need of something to prevent her from falling apart at the seams. The feel of his cock inside of her, much thicker than Derek’s, but not nearly as terrifyingly long, eases some of the ache inside of her, but not all of it.

“Please,” she begs him.

“Shh, precious,” he soothes. It’s the first thing he’s ever said to her. “I’ll give you what you need.”

And he does. Gently at first, with dirty little rolls of his hips that grind against her over-sensitive clit, he moves minutely inside of her, getting her body used to such a thick intrusion. It’s not until her hips are rolling with his in counterpoint that he starts quickening his pace.

And she is lost. Lost in his scent, lost in his body, lost in the pleasure he’s wringing out of her until it’s all she knows.

In the back of her mind, she wonders how she is supposed to go back to Derek after this. Derek has never bothered much with foreplay, only doing enough to get her wet. 75% of the time, she doesn’t even cum. One night with Peter has ruined her for life, and she knows that once she recovers, she’ll finally be kicking Derek to the curb. She tucks her head into Peter’s neck and tries not to cry, tries not to lose her composure over this. It’s just sex. Really, really good sex, but….

“Look at me,” Peter says, thrusting harder as if to punctuate the command, and it honestly takes her a long moment to untuck her head from his neck. She meets his too-blue gaze, almost unable to see him between the sweat and the unshed tears.

“I’m going to cum soon,” he tells her, panting, sweat dripping down his face. “How do you want it?”

It takes her a moment to realize what he means, but once she does, she can’t help but moan and clutch him tighter to her. “I-Inside,” she pants out. “P-Please, i-inside!”

He groans, hips stuttering. “Perfect. You’re so perfect for me,” he tells her, even as his eyes go from bluer than a summer sky to the bright, heady crimson of an alpha. As if some sort of damn has broken open, he starts babbling as he drives harder and deeper, his thrusts inside followed by a grind of his hips that has her seeing stars.

“Knew the moment I saw you, knew you’d be perfect under me. Knew you’d take me so good. I want to breed you, want to give you my knot, see you grow round with my babe. Want to pack you full of my seed, over and over again until it takes. Want it. Want you.”

Now, it should be mentioned that Stiles has never been a patient girl. Impulsive and head-strong, she has always dived head-first into things without fully analyzing the consequences. While age and maturity have both made her pause long enough to recognize that there would be consequences, she’s never really gotten over that.

Which is why the second she hears the word ‘knot’ leave Peter’s lips, she doesn’t think twice beyond the fact that she wants it, wants it _now_.

“Do it,” she tells him. “Knot me, make me yours!”

The whole pack watches, even Derek, as Peter knots Stiles, breeds her well and true. They stay entwined together on their pile of pillows, Stiles with her eyes closed, looking for the first time since she showed up content and at peace, Peter unable to stop touching her – the swell of her belly, the gentle curve of her hip, the delicate line of her collarbone –

One by one, the pack crawls up to them, touching and leaving behind their scents before backing away and making room for the next pack-mate to welcome the new couple. Derek watches them all, even his mother, as they show their respect and love.

He is eventually the last.

He meets his uncle’s crimson gaze, and knows that Peter will never forget or forgive the way Derek has treated Stiles in the four months he’d had her. He also knows he cannot find it in himself to welcome Stiles into their pack, especially not as his uncle’s new mate.

He can feel his mother and his sisters watching him, waiting for him at the entrance. He knows that his next action will have consequences. He just can’t bring himself to care. He turns his back on the new couple and marches out, using all the extra weight and bulk they lack to shoulder between his livid sisters.

He finds his clothes and dresses, ignoring his mother’s hissed instructions to turn his ass back around and properly great the newest pack-mate. He gets into his car, turns the ignition, and leaves.

(He bears the consequences stoically once he finds out what they are. His uncle never again invites him to the pack bonding parties, and both his sisters refuse to allow him to be alone with either Stiles or her pups.

He doesn’t care.)


	11. Porn found here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn. Just porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Please do not read this chapter if any of the following will trigger/disgust you:
> 
> extreme underage, pedophilia, non-con, rape of a minor, non-consensual somnophilia, urethral play, watersports, incest, multiple penetration, gang-bang, gang-rape, manipulation of a minor, sexual grooming

Okay, so basic premise on this verse was that after Claudia died, social services was called because a teacher reported that 5/6-year-old Stiles had showed up to school 4 days in a row with no lunch. Sheriff goes nearly out of his mind, still dealing with the grief of losing his wife, and now being threatened with the loss of his only child, the last remainder of Claudia he has. He knows he’s technically not fit: he works too long and at odd hours, has a high-risk job that could see him dead at any moment, can’t be there to watch Stiles 75% of the time, and money is stretched very, very thin.

Which is when Talia Hale steps in. She’s a strong, independent woman in need of no man – has had a string of lovers with which she’s born several children – but she sees the way other children tease hers for having no father. She sees the way parents eye her and her children, her alpha hearing allowing her to clearly hear every whispered “whore” and “slut” and “bastard.” She talks John into a marriage of convenience. It’ll give her children some shelter from close-minded people who can’t mind their own business, and it’ll get Social Services off John’s back about Stiles.

“I have several children, John, and I work from home, so I can consistently be there when one needs me. Adding Stiles won’t be a hardship at all.”

John doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to soil Claudia’s memory by marrying so soon after her death, but eventually he sees that it’s the only way he’ll be able to keep Stiles. The marriage is short and simple – they head down to the courthouse and sign a marriage certificate, Melissa as his witness, Peter as Talia’s.

John and Stiles move into the Hale house.

John never does quite fit in, around too little, with values and moralities that don’t quite match up to a werewolf pack’s, but he’s also hardly ever around, so it’s not like anyone minds much.

Stiles though…. It takes hard concentration some days to remind themselves that Stiles is not a wolf. She is instinctively so much like them that Talia finds herself genuinely caring for the girl, treating her like she birthed the girl herself.

Peter… not  so much. 

I never did get around to writing it, because basically I kept getting distracted by the various ways this verse could go, so uh, here are 5 shorts I wrote a long time ago. None of them are finished, and none of them fit each other, and all are things I do not condone in real life when dealing with minors. 

 

 

**Short # 1: In which Uncle Peter is patient.**

Stiles watches, breath caught, as Uncle Peter fucks his thick cock into his hand. She watches as his face contorts and his mouth drops open, listens as his voice cries out her name. She watches as that thick cock twitches and then spurts, cum flying out of the tip with enough force to land all the way up his heaving chest and across that deliciously thick neck. She watches the way he works himself through it, moaning and whimpering, keeping himself hard and raring for round two despite the over-sensitivity.

And she wants. She wants to climb on top of her Uncle and rut against him until he’s ready to cum again. She wants to fit that gorgeously thick cock inside of her where no one else has ever been, forcing him to core out a place inside of her just for him. She wants to ride him until he makes that face again – almost pained with bright electric-blue wolf eyes staring at her in something like delirium. She wants to feel him cum again inside of her, wants to milk him until she’s full of his seed. She wants to do it all, over and over and over again until it takes, until she’s fat and round with his babies.

Instead, she bites her lip and backs out of the room, face flushed and hands trembling. When her dad asks her where Peter is, she avoids Talia’s knowing gaze and mumbles that he’s busy.

***

Talia is thankful that Stiles is just human and doesn’t know exactly how strong a werewolf’s sense of smell is. No doubt the young girl, just barely 13 now, would be far more embarrassed if she knew what she wanted was written in explicit detail in her scent – that even Cora, younger by almost a full year and just learning how to distinguish various scents and what they mean, knows that Stiles wants to climb their uncle like a tree and ride him until she’s thoroughly bred.

Given Peter’s receptiveness to her pheromones, Talia knows that Stiles would already be pregnant, 13 years of age or no, if it weren’t for John. Talia has cautioned Peter against making a move until Stiles is old enough that John has no legal say over who Stiles decides to fuck.

 

 

 

 

**Short # 2: In which Uncle Peter is not patient.**

Stiles is ever-so-quiet as she sneaks into her uncle’s room. She’s not trying to avoid him catching her, as she knows he was awake the second she opened his door (because werewolf), but she does want to avoid waking her daddy. Her new mommy – Ms. Talia – is running around with her new brothers and sisters – Laura, Cora, Matthew, and Derek – howling at the moon and generally having a grand old time.

Stiles, as the only human and barely 8 besides, gets left at home.

But that’s okay. She doesn’t mind at all, because she honestly prefers the nights spent with Uncle Peter than anything else in the world.

Sure enough, as she crawls into his bed, he turns to face her, peaking out at her with one blue eye. She wiggles underneath the covers, smiling when her uncle shifts around so that she’s curled up in the warm spot, her uncle wrapped around her, legs tangled with hers, one arm curled under her head, the other wrapped around her tummy, fingers rubbing gently at her clothed flesh. She dozes off, warm and content, wrapped in the security of Peter’s scent and warmth, secure in the knowledge that nothing will hurt her as long as her uncle is around.

She wakes sometime later to the feeling of Peter’s thick fingers thrusting steadily inside of her. She whines and wiggles, feeling that weird tingly feeling rising through her that past experience tells her will turn into something amazing.

“Shhh, baby girl,” Uncle Peter whispers in her ear as he adds another finger, beginning to spread them, stretching her baby-cunt in preparation for something much bigger. She keens as his fingers find that spot inside of her that makes sparks explode behind her eyes.

“Shhh,” he repeats, lips brushing teasingly against her throat. “I’ll take care of you, my precious baby.” He withdraws his fingers and she can’t help but cry out in disappointment, even though she knows that her uncle won’t leave her hanging, won’t stop at just a swift and almost brutal fingering.

“Shhh,” he soothes as he fits the head of his thick grown-man’s cock against her opening, rocking teasingly. “I know what you need, sweet thing, always know what you need.”

And then he’s sliding inside, easing the hollow aching emptiness inside of her, making her feel relaxed and content for the first time since the last time she’d had his cock inside of her, splitting her open and coring out a place for himself inside of her.

 

 

 

 

 

**Not-so-Short # 3: In which no one is patient, and family fun is had. (Ft. genderbent!Cora)**

“So good baby girl,” Peter croons at her, fingers trailing along her spine, soothing her. At her barely-budded breasts, Corey is nursing hungrily, strong rhythmic sucks that sends trails of fire along her nerve endings. Derek moves between her legs, pressing soft, gentle kisses along her inner thighs. “Let them nurse, sweetheart,” he whispers, just as Derek closes his mouth around her clit and starts suckling, tongue flicking rapidly.

She wails, body jolting. Peter holds her tightly against him, leaving her no room to move away from those hungry mouths.

“That’s it,” he says, and she can feel the smug smirk against the back of her neck. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

And it does. God does it. Corey switches nipples, bringing his hand up to play with the one he’s abandoned, just as Derek slides two fingers into her cunt. She writhes as best she can, her orgasm crashing over her with all the violence and fury of a tsunami, leaving her wrung out and panting.

And they don’t _stop_.

If anything, they go _harder_ , Derek slipping another finger inside of her, Corey adding a little teeth to his suckling. Peter’s teeth clamp tight in the back of her neck, the hand running up and down her spine migrating lower, teasing at the tight furl of her asshole. She whines and shivers and tries to push them away, but she can’t make her mouth form functional words, and her shaking body is too weak to push werewolves off.

They don’t stop until she’s a limp rag of pre-teen girl, too tired to protest, every touch enough to almost hurt. And even then, they only stop to change the way things are done. Peter’s fingers are lubed and pressing into her ass, stretching her quickly and dutifully. It’s not long at all before his also-lubed erection is pressing into her ass, filling her in one long, slow glide that doesn’t stop until she can feel the press of his hip-bones against the meat of her ass.

And then Derek is leaning over top of her, grinning manically, pressing his erection against the tight opening of her cunt, and she wants to beat at him, scream at him that she’s too full, she can’t fit both of them, but all she can do is moan. Her arm doesn’t even twitch. And Derek presses in, just as slow as his uncle had, just as unstoppable, and he doesn’t stop until every inch of his cock is crammed in, the tip pressed snug against her cervix. Pain and pleasure both fissure up her spine, and she wails again, tears clouding her eyes.

Corey hooks his thumbs in her mouth, keeping her jaw locked open even as he swings his legs over her and Peter and settles so that to be truly comfortable, his dick would have to be fully embedded in her throat.

And that’s exactly what he does. Keeping her mouth open, he presses forward, breathing heavily, watching with bright beta-gold eyes as his cock disappears inch by inch. She doesn’t have a gag reflex, but he’s almost too thick, and she doesn’t want this, so she chokes trying to keep him out. But he presses forward regardless, uncaring and unconcerned.

This is happening, she realizes.

All three of them are going to fuck her holes ragged, are going to knot each hole closed and pack her full of Hale cock, are going to make her take them until she’s dripping with Hale seed. She sobs, closes her eyes, and lets Corey in.

And they do.

They fuck her over and over again. Each one gets a taste of each of her holes, each one knotting her tight and forcing her limp, used body to take more and more seed. They stay hard, never once giving her poor human body a break. And by the time each has had a taste of each of her holes, she is so open, gaping so large, that they can easily fuck her with their knots, full and hard.

She is left on the bed once the males are done with her, panting and crying and twitching, packed full of Hale seed, leaking from almost every hole on her body. She looks down, sees her bloated stomach, round and taught as if she was 7-8 months pregnant, and cries harder.

Which is when Talia and Laura come in.

Both are wearing harnesses with fake cocks attached, long and monstrous to Stiles’ eyes. Talia’s harness has two cocks, both with fake inflatable knots at the base. Her harness also has two other things, two things that scare Stiles. The first thing is a bullet vibrator that she knows from prior experience will be centered perfectly on her clit when she’s firmly settled on both knots, stuck with nowhere to go. The second thing is new – a thin, curved rod with several bumps along the metal.

She whines.

Talia has just stared getting her accustomed to urethral play. Stiles isn’t sure she likes it, but Talia swears that one day Stiles will be able to take a cock in that hole as well.

Laura’s harness is more tame by far – a simple 9 inch long cock about as thick as a soda-can.

Talia doesn’t listen to Stiles’ whining, neither does Laura. Both are wild-eyed and excited, noses flaring at the scent of so much cum. They adjust her so that she’s lying flat on her back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, her head hanging over the other side, and ready themselves. Laura penetrates her first, thick head of her fake cock dragging against Stiles’ lips and into her mouth.

Stiles doesn’t try to stop it. She just closes her eyes and takes it.

Talia hooks Stiles’ slim legs over her shoulders and positions herself.

It is good the men had a chance to work Stiles over first, fucking her stupid until her holes are gaping wide enough to fit a grown-man’s fist with ease, because Talia has chosen the biggest of her toys this time. She wants to wreck this girl, wants her to know without a doubt who is alpha here, who owns each and every inch of that delectable flesh. She fits the heads of her cocks against the girl’s gaping ruins, and eases in. Even gapped as wide as they are, Talia still has to work at it, rocking and grinding her hips to fit her fat, inhuman cocks inside her pretty little step-daughter.

Once inside, she doesn’t pause, or work up to a steady rhythm. She just goes, letting go of all restraint, fucking deep and hard and wild, each harsh thrust pushing Stiles deeper onto Laura’s cock. She closes her eyes and listens to the gagging sounds, listens to the thin buzz of the vibrator she can hear working hard within Laura’s cunt, listens to the sounds of her men around them, jacking themselves off to the sweet sight of Stiles being wrecked.

She opens her eyes and smiles, wicked and wild. Time to really get this party started.

She slows down, grinds in deeper, takes hold of the thin, bumpy urethral sound she’s hooked onto her harness, and starts to work it in a well. It’s difficult, Stiles is packed so full of cock, but Talia is nothing if not determined. She makes sure to keep her senses trained on Stiles however for this, for while she wants to wreck Stiles, leave her gaping and ruined for anyone other than another Hale, she doesn’t want her hurt seriously.

She hadn’t needed to worry. It’s difficult, but Stiles’ body is so hungry, all her holes practically begging to be stuffed and used. Talia rocks back and forth, watching with wide eyes as her cocks and the sound penetrate her 11-year-old step-daughter, going deeper and deeper until finally Talia can go no further. She doesn’t hesitate, grabs the pump and swiftly starts to inflate her knots, groaning as each squeeze also inflates the plugs inside her own holes.

She doesn’t stop until her own cunt twinges in protest.

Laura is still fucking fast and furious into Stiles, holding her head still at the perfect angle, watching with eager eyes as the girl’s throat bulges with each inward stroke.

Talia grins at Laura as she presses the on switch to the bullet vibe pressed firmly against Stiles’ clit.

The girl goes wild, twitching and shaking and writhing between them, bloated belly swaying. Talia can’t help but place her hands against the taught flesh. She wants Stiles to catch. She wants to see her bloated not with cum, but with a babe or three, wants to feel life kick beneath her palms.

Derek climbs on the bed next to her, Corey on the opposite side, mouths latching onto Stiles’ raw tits, suckling even as they jack themselves off.

Peter pulls Laura out of Stiles’ throat, kisses her gently.

Laura smiles at him and kisses his cheek, already tugging off the harness so she can fit that thick fake cock inside of her.

Peter moves to take her place, sliding his own cock into the gaping maw of Stiles mouth. He fucks even harder than Laura did, a fast, brutal pace that reveals just how close he is to the edge. He doesn’t stop until his knot is locked firmly behind Stiles’ teeth, hands caressing the thick bulge of him in her throat.

Talia watches entranced – she can see every flex and jerk of Peter’s cock as he empties himself inside, feeding their hungry girl.

 

 

 

 

 

**Short # 4: Talia and Peter keep Stiles for themselves.**

Stiles is such a pretty little thing, and for once Talia finds herself in complete and total agreement with Peter on what she wants to do to the girl. The need burns between her thighs, heady and terrifying all at once, because while she’s long known that Peter was a little deviant in his desires, she’d never known that she could be just as sick and depraved as he was.

But there can be no other explanation for what she’s doing – sliding a thicker sound into the panting 8-year-old’s urethra, watching with wide, eager eyes as the tiny hole gives so easily to receive it, eyes occasionally dipping down to the girl’s ass, stretched obscenely around Peter’s cock. He’s knotted her again, locked deep inside, balls still pulsing as he unloads his seed yet again. She’s lost track of how long they’ve been at this. It may have been days at this point.

Peter had drugged the child that first time at the tender age of 6, had waited until that little body went lax and still, breath deep and even in her unnatural sleep.  Talia had watched, breath caught, as he had slowly stretched that tight furl open until he had been able to fit four fingers snug inside her. She watched as he sat down on the couch, lifted Stiles, and settled her so that that slightly gaping hole had ever so gently kissed the tip of his cock.

She had watched, eyes wide and disbelieving as her brother’s thick, meaty cock had disappeared, inch by devastating inch, into her step-daughter’s prone form, until at last that hungry hole had swallowed everything he’d had to give.

She’d helped him then, hadn’t been able to stop herself. While he grabbed hold of her legs, Talia had knelt between his splayed thighs and held the girl’s hips, and together they moved her limp form like a living fleshlight up and down his cock. Talia couldn’t help herself. That close, she had a clear view of that sweet hairless cunt, baby-soft and so tiny.

She’d buried her head between her step-daughter’s thighs and gorged herself on that succulent flesh, clever tongue finding every single spot that made her young daughter jerk, even while drugged and unconscious.

Peter had knotted Stiles that first time, and Talia had moved down to worship his breeder’s balls, holding them one at a time in her mouth, relishing the feel of them pumping virile Hale seed into Stiles’ guts.

It was a blur after that.

She’s not sure when, exactly, she’d left and pulled out her box of toys, eager to play with the bared cunt her brother so selflessly presented her. She’s not sure how many times Peter’s unloaded in Stiles’ ass, not sure how many of those loads were cum and how many were piss.

She’s not sure when she’d eased a bullet vibrator into her step-daughter’s virgin cunt, pressing it into her g-spot and turning it on to the highest setting. She’s not sure when she’d clamped Stiles’ pretty tits, or when Stiles had woken up, whimpering and crying and begging, so lost in feeling she couldn’t even tell whether or not she liked it.

Talia had helped. Talia had soothed all that pretty quivering girl-flesh with her tongue, until Stiles had been clutching her hair, wailing and experiencing her first ever orgasm.

It had been far from her last.

Talia and Peter took every chance they got to play with Stiles, taking things farther and farther with each session, until here they were, two years later, Stiles locked on Peter’s cock, little belly bloated with Peter’s cum and piss, nursing on the thick dildo Peter is gently thrusting into her mouth, slowly getting her ready for when he would also claim that tiny throat. All the while Talia had her step-daughter’s little tits and clit firmly clamped, occasionally tugging on the thin chains just to hear the little girl wail around the fake cock in her mouth. Had a small dildo deeply buried in that tiny baby-cunt, so fresh and new and much too small to take anything close to the size of Peter’s cock. And the sound, this one as thick as Peter’s index finger, gliding so easily in and out of the girl’s hole, deep enough that Talia knows she’s fucking the girl’s bladder.

Her own clenches in sympathy. She’s fascinate by how hungry Stiles’ holes are, how voraciously they take everything she and Peter give them. She wants to see how far she can go, how far they can ruin the girl before she breaks under the pressure – if she’ll break at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Short # 5: Stiles has a fetish, or six (ft. Human!Hales, genderbent!cora, devious!Peter, and Male!Stiles)**

It starts with Corey – a year and a half younger than Stiles – and still prone to wetting the bed occasionally. It’s Stiles’ first night bunking with the younger boy, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, one might say he relishes the chance to be an older brother in real life. He already play-acts the older brother with Scott, because if anyone is in need of some brothering it’s that puppy, but this is real, this is _tangible_.

This is Stiles waking up to the slowly spreading warmth and pungent smell of fresh piss.

His mind blanks for a long moment.

He’s precocious for his age, everyone tells him so. He discovered his dick and what it could do for him when he was still toddling around, and it had taken the combined efforts of both his parents to get him to stop touching it whenever he damn well pleased. Lying there, sleep hazy, surrounded by warmth, breathing in Corey’s toddler-scent and the smell of piss, he gets hard.

Corey moves in his sleep, shifting away from the wet warmth, and in doing so, his thigh rubs up against Stiles’ hard dick. Stiles can’t help it then. He rocks forward, pale small hands grabbing Corey’s tan flesh and grinding against it, chasing that electric feeling that makes stars explode behind his eyes. He rocks and rocks and rocks, breathing heavily, biting his lips so that he doesn’t make a sound.

Eventually there is a feeling like an explosion inside of him, and his dick starts twitching like mad, the little hole in the head flexing like when he strains to pee sometimes, but nothing comes out. Eventually he stops rocking and lets Corey have his thigh back.

It’s only the start.

Let no one ever say Stiles doesn’t have an oral fixation a mile wide.

Because he doesn’t mind when Corey wets the bed. He gets rock-hard every time he scents piss, whether it’s his own or Corey’s or anyone else’s. He eventually gets brave one day while peeing and sticks his hand down there, watching as his hand gets covered in his pee. He eyes his hand for a long moment before tentatively sticking a finger in his mouth.

It's like something goes off inside his head. He finds himself suckling his own pee off his skin, and absently wonders if he can avoid the awkward moments with Corey in the mornings if he just …takes care of the problem.

It’s not like Corey would know – the kid sleeps like the dead. So one night, Stiles waits for Corey to fall asleep, and then gently pulls down the boy’s underpants, and just looks at his tiny dick. It’s only a little smaller than Stiles’ but somehow just looking at it makes Stiles’ mouth water. Not being one to deny himself the things he wants (which has made for some very awkward conversations between himself and his dad), he settles between Corey’s thighs and starts suckling.

It’s soothing, in a way Stiles never once thought about. Somehow suckling on Corey’s dick makes him feel …peaceful, content. His thoughts slow down and finally just stop, leaving him blinking sleepily at the wall beside their bed.

He only comes to complete awareness again when Corey’s dick flexes in his mouth. He closes his eyes and braces himself, for a brief moment unsure if he could actually do this. But the second the first drop touches his tongue, he moans, hard again, rutting against the bed even as he drinks down Corey’s pee eagerly.

***

He does it every night for three-weeks straight, even though Corey only pees in the night once more, before Peter catches him.

***

Peter’s been into watersports since middle-school, when he’d forced a bully face-first into a freshly used toilet and gotten hard when the other boy accidentally got some in his mouth. Access to internet being what it was, Peter had quickly determined that yes, this was a thing, and no, he didn’t want to be on the receiving end.

Finding Stiles with his little mouth wrapped around his nephew’s tiny dick told him 2 things right off the bat: 1) he’d just found out why Corey no longer had any “accidents,” and 2) Stiles liked being on the receiving end.

Peter has never claimed to be nice or moral. He gives no fucks about rules or laws or anything other than what he wants, when he wants. So the next night, while Talia is out with friends and John is working and all the littles are in bed, he pulls Stiles out of Corey’s room and into his own. His bladder is already hurting, having held off for almost a full hour after the first warning twinges started.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just sits on his bed watching the boy as he shifts and blushes and wrings his hands, likely knowing he is in trouble, but also not quite understanding why.

“You know, you’re not supposed to touch other people without their consent, Stiles,” he remarks casually.

Stiles flushes harder. “I didn’t hurt him!” he blurts.

“No,” Peter drawls. “And that’s the only reason I’m not tanning your hide before telling both Talia and John about what you’ve done.” He leans forward. “What you’re doing is _illegal_ , Stiles.”

Stiles starts crying, and it’s beautiful to see.

“Shhh,” he hushes, holding out his arms. Stiles rushes into them, choking out apologies over and over again has Peter holds him. “It’s alright, Stiles. I won’t tell.”

Stiles pulls back and sniffles. “You promise?”

Peter smiles and nods. “Of course, sweetheart. But I know you need it. It makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”

Stiles nods.

“So I want you to promise me something, okay?”

Stiles simply looks at him, teary-eyed and hopeful.

“Whenever you need it, you come to me, okay? I’m old enough to consent, sweetheart, and I’ll even keep it a secret for you.”

Stiles bites his lips, looking for a moment completely unsure. “I..I don’t know…” he mutters.

Peter smiles, puts Stiles down between his legs, unzips his jeans and pulls out his limp dick. He has the pleasure of watching Stiles’ eyes go hooded and dark and _hungry_ , that little tongue liking absently at those plush lips. “Just try,” he coaxes softly. “If you don’t like it, we’ll try and find another solution for you.”

And Stiles nods slowly, eyes never leaving his dick, gaze glued firmly to Peter’s urethral opening, where despite his best efforts to keep back the flow, a little dribble of piss is leaking out. “Stiles,” he breathes out. “I’m not going to be able to hold it back much longer. C’mon sweetheart. I’ve been saving it just for you.”

And Stiles leans forward and takes his tip into his mouth, those lush lips stretching obscenely around his girth, tongue flicking languidly against the head, cleaning it of all traces of Peter’s escaped piss. And Peter watches the way Stiles simply just stills, eyes closing, body relaxing, suckling gently on Peter’s tip.

And Peter lets go. Watches with something close to awe lighting up his heart as the boy drinks down every drop like he’s starving for it, despite that Peter’s flow has to be much stronger and pungent than little Corey’s. Watches as the little boy keeps suckling, even after Peter stops pissing, resting his little head so trustingly against Peter’s thigh. Peter can’t stop himself from hardening in that little mouth, can’t stop himself from palming the back of that little head.

“I’ve got a different little treat for you, sweetheart,” he chokes out as his other hand wraps around his erection, jacking off slowly only out of concern of accidentally smacking into that little mouth. “Just be patient, and then drink it all down for me, okay?”

Stiles humms his agreement, tongue digging into Peter’s slit like he could forcefully dig out Peter’s cum, and the thought and feeling has Peter wondering if maybe he should start investing in some new toys. He wonders as he jacks his dick, what having his urethra tongue-fucked might feel like. The thought of that, of Stiles’ little tongue cleaning him inside and out after each piss he takes is what sets him off, coming into that plush mouth.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, leaning back and watching the kid as he keeps suckling, even though Peter is starting to wince because he’s beginning to get over-sensitive. _Definitely need to get some new toys._


	12. True-Mates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It worked.
> 
> His shitty, spur-of-the-moment back-up plan worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect a few more along this vein. I started this story no less than six times, and each time took it in a different direction. This one's not my favorite, but my favorite will be posted as an actual fic once I finish it!

He’s alive.

Peter breathes in sweet, sweet air, feeling his lungs expand and contract with each inhale and exhale, marveling at the fact that he can do this again.

It worked.

His shitty, spur-of-the-moment back-up plan _worked_.

He’s alive.

Only he’s not, not yet. Not completely.

The spell is only good for 24 hours. He is currently in between all states right now: alpha werewolf, but not; living, but not.  He needs to find an anchor, a tether to bind him to this plane of existence before his 24 hours are up.

He needs a mate.

A strong one.

Luckily, he already knows several people who would make ideal mates.

His first thought is to try Lydia, but that falls through before he even opens his mouth. The possession and ritual she’s performed, not to mention lugging 200+ pounds of solid werewolf muscle across town, has left her dazed, tired, and metaphysically exhausted. Peter would kill her trying to bind himself to her.

Derek is out for similar reasons, drained of his life-force almost to the point of death.

This leaves Peter with only one choice, really, considering both his time-frame and his desires.

=

He expects many things when he crawls into Stiles Stilinski’s bed in the wee hours of the morning, naked as the day he was born and already half-hard just at the scent of her. He expects screams when she wakes to him methodically stripping her of her clothing. He expects her fear, her loathing, even her hatred. What he gets instead is a sleepy mutter of his name in a tone that speaks of utter contentment. She moves with him, helping him divest her of her coverings with no protests and no attempts to struggle away from him. When she’s naked as the day she was born, she doesn’t reek of embarrassment or shame for her looks the way he might have suspected. Instead, she gives him a soft little half-smile, and a languorous stretch that puts miles of pale skin on display to its best advantage.

He expects many things, but what he gets is soft, _genuine_ submission and quiet moans for _more_ as Peter touches her and marks her, responding to her sleepy moans with a tenderness he’d thought had been burnt out of him.

He coaxes her through two whimpering orgasms before he positions himself against her dripping sex, rubbing the head of his painfully-hard cock against her labia even as he lifts the girl’s arm up, mouthing against the thin, sensitive skin of her wrist.

Her amber eyes are a bright, fire-lit gold as she watches him, panting and writhing against him, trying to wriggle her body down enough to encase him in her dripping heat.

“Stiles,” he murmurs. “Do you want it?”

And she doesn’t tense, doesn’t try to take her arm away from his mouth, doesn’t scream or shout, or anything Peter might have expected Stiles to do in this position.

“Yes,” she says instead, smiling, and Peter hears the steady, even pulse of her heart. She smells only of want, of peace, of anticipation.

He doesn’t ask again. In the same instant that he drives his hard cock inside of her, starting the process that will see him bound to her and her to him, he calls on the shift and buries the teeth of his wolf into her thin wrist. A high-pitched cry escapes her throat as her back arches with the sudden pains, but Peter is quick. The second he’s fully seated within her, he has his other palm on the soft swell of her stomach, drawing out the pain.

She relaxes into him bit by bit, gaze a bit teary, body twitching as she tries to adjust to the size of him.

She’s almost too tight. He shifts minutely, licks at the blood dripping down her wrist, and watches her, waiting. He’s an average length for males – just barely touching seven inches – but he’s _much_ thicker than the average, and he knows no amount of careful preparation in the world would have readied her for the feel of him inside of her, stretching her beyond anything she’s known.

He wants to _move_ , wants to fuck her full of him, wants to core out a place inside of her just for him, but Peter can be patient. No matter how much the feel of her tight heat rippling around him makes him want to let go, he won’t move until he no longer needs to draw her pain out. He wants this to be good for her: a first mating should always be good, a gift from the more experienced partner to the other.

As the pain starts to ease, he leans over and kisses her. Her heart sputters, her scent tinged mildly with surprise, but she eagerly kisses back, winding long, pale arms around his neck. Gently, carefully, he starts rocking, easing his cock minutely back and forth within her, listening for any signs of returning pain.

There is none, and he takes her “ _oh, oh **please**!”_ as a sign that all is good.

Peter’s last conscious thought before everything becomes a blur of memories and feelings is: ‘ _Oh_.’

Because _of_ _course_ Stiles is his true mate. _Of course_ the one person he’d ever met who knew what he was and was capable of and still didn’t turn away would turn out to be that perfect missing piece of his soul.

His surprise isn’t underserved.

A true mating is rare.

Mostly because people tend to avoid their true mates with every fiber of their being. Only the unaware and the careless dare to claim their true mate. There are many reasons given as to why it happens that way, but what it boils down to is _fear_. _No one_ is prepared for the melding that comes with a true mating: an inescapable blending of thoughts and memories and souls until neither is sure where one begins and the other ends.

No one _wants_ to have someone in their head, learning every secret, every thought, and every emotion.

It’s not permanent. The melding happens only with the first claiming, and ensures that the couple has the best start they possibly could. A true mating results in an almost-unbreakable bond, a clean slate in which there are no secrets between them, every inch of them laid bare and accepted.

And so they are.

And so they do.

=

Peter wakes in stages.

He first becomes aware of fingers combing through his hair in soothing, slow motions. Next is the lingering scent of sex and the stronger scents of honeysuckle and cinnamon – Stiles’ scent. Third is the bond tightening between them, the unfiltered mass of feelings that bombard him the second his attention turns to it. He pauses only long enough to get a handle on what his new mate is feeling before opening his eyes.

In broad daylight, Peter sees the things he missed last night – the thin frailness of her frame, the deep circles beneath her eyes, the silent agony in her pretty eyes. He doesn’t think about what he’s learned over the course of the melding. He knows that if he thinks too long on it, he will go on yet another rampage – and that is precisely the last thing Stiles needs from him.

They stare at each other for a long moment, each taking in the sight of the other, cataloging the differences with keen eyes, emotions flowing back and forth between their strengthening bond. They say nothing: Peter because he’s not sure what to say that wouldn’t come out sounding like a manipulative asshole, and Stiles because for once there’s nothing she can say to convey what she’s feeling, what she’s thinking.

Eventually he clears his throat and tells her seriously, “This means you're mine now, you know.”

Stiles only nods.

Peter studies her. “I didn’t expect this to go this easy,” he tells her, all but admitting that he would have raped her if he had needed to.

“I know,” she says.

“Why?”

Stiles tilts her head. “You were right, that night in the garage. I did want it.” She smiles ruefully. “I just didn’t want it at the expense of my best –and only – friend.”

“And what changed?”

“Nothing really,” she admits. “But you’ve already proven how far you’d be willing to go to protect – or avenge – what you consider yours. You’re smart, cultured, charming. Not to mention you’re an unfairly attractive man that crawled naked into my bed to do sinfully wicked things to me while basically offering to bind himself to me for better or for worse.” The grin she tosses his way is mostly mischief.  “Like hell I was passing that up.”

Peter thinks this over. Eventually he shrugs. “Fair enough.” He hauls himself out of the bed, smiling to himself when a burst of pheromones hit the air. As he walks across her room to the door – intending to raid her dad’s closet for a clean set of clothes – he glances over at her.

Stiles is watching him, eyes dark with want.

He can’t help but preen a bit, satisfaction like chocolate on his tongue as her eyes trace the rippling muscles. “I’m a bit hungry,” he says, “How about you?”

Stiles, true to form, doesn’t hold back on anything, least of all what she now knows she can have. “Not really, to be honest. How about you grab a couple of donuts from the box I have stashed on top of the fridge, and then come back up here so I can put my oral fixation to use?”

And, well, screw the clothes.

Peter makes it back up to Stiles’ room in record time, the entire box of donuts in his hand.

He _is_ hungry, and he will need to make sure Stiles eats something.


	13. Garage Scene Remix #4001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why can’t you see I’m not the bad guy here?” Peter asks her, and it’s a rhetorical question, it is, but Stiles is much too angry to really care about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another garage scene remix. Because I like writing them. <3

“Why can’t you see I’m not the bad guy here?” Peter asks her, and it’s a rhetorical question, it is, but Stiles is much too angry to really care about that.

And maybe angry isn’t quite the right word to express exactly what she’s feeling, but to be honest, she doesn’t know exactly what she’s feeling. There is something cold and vicious living in her chest, crawling up through her throat like it’s trying to get out. Her stomach is twisting in knots like she’s nauseous, and her eyes are burning like she’s going to start crying any second now. She’s all turned around and confused, and if she’s being brutally honest with herself, every time she’s around Peter Hale, she gets like this. But it’s the cold, vicious monster in her chest that makes her move before she even has a split second to process exactly how stupid what she is about to do actually is.

Stiles gets right up in his face, staring him down even as she practically spits out her answer. “Maybe it’s because you’ve been running around terrorizing innocent teenagers who have absolutely nothing to do with your family burning? Or maybe it’s because you’re planning murder as your first attempt instead of trying to seek justice – and using my best friend to do it?? Or! Or maybe it’s because instead of respecting Scott’s wishes to leave him and his family and friends the hell alone, or showing even a tiny shred of genuine regret that you bit him without his consent, you’re acting like every caught rapist in the world and playing it off like _you’re_ the injured party?” She’s breathing heavy by the time she finishes, but there is a certain kind of calm spreading through her. She doesn’t understand it any more than she understands why she feels so strongly about his actions, but if there is one thing she can do well, it’s acting on her gut instincts.

Stiles raises her chin and sneers at him, let’s all her anger and disappointment and dismay fill her face and voice. “I don’t know, _Alpha_. Why can’t I see that you’re not the bad guy?”

She never breaks his gaze. No matter that he is an alpha werewolf and Derek has told her and Scott over and over again that meeting the gaze of an alpha and holding it can be seen as a direct challenge. Stiles could no more break that gaze than she could have stopped the flow of words that left her mouth.

So she sees the way Peter’s eyes widen in shock and more than a little dismay. It’s there for only a small second, but it _is_ there. But his face hardens and closes off to her just as quick.

“I like you, Stiles,” he says as he pulls back. “I think I’ll give you a gift, before I go.”

Her mind goes eerily blank for a moment. She’s not exactly a stranger to the dangers that await the so-called fairer sex. Her dad is a cop, has been a cop for going on 35 years now, and he would never allow his only child to remain ignorant to what may happen to her or someone she lovers. She knows all about rape and abuse and power dynamics, knows all about the ways she is helpless and unable to save herself.

But Stiles also knows one thing above all others: Peter Hale won’t hurt her. He’s had every single opportunity to do so, after all, and he’s never once lived up to his supposedly feral state. Which now that she thinks about it, is probably why she’s so upset with him. Being 100% crazy would have given him some measure of protection, but he’s too calculated to be crazy. Every move he’s made has been made with an endgame in mind, which means everything from Laura’s death to Lydia’s mauling has had a purpose.

It is her belief that Peter won’t hurt her that makes her roll her eyes. “Unless you have a few Tylenol and a bag of curly fries squirreled away on your person, I’m not really interested.”

Peter barks out a laugh. He smiles at her, genuinely amused by her sass, and Stiles’ heart stutters and stops. Because right now, the way he’s looking at her, too-blue eyes sparkling with his mirth, is like looking at a completely different man. In that moment, there is no rage, no bitter hatred, no madness: there is just an unfairly gorgeous man looking at her like she is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

He takes hold of her wrist, gently, embracing it in his large hand like something delicate and precious to him. “Do you want the bite?” he asks her.

And Stiles… doesn’t say no. She should say no. She should yank her arm away from him and rage – yet again – about all the reasons why Peter Hale is definitely the monster in this scenario.

And yet…

Peter is still smiling at her, his blue eyes still twinkling.

“Why are you asking?” _Why don’t you just take?_ goes unsaid.

Peter smiles and shakes his head, brings her wrist closer to his face. He presses a small, chaste kiss to the skin. “Do you want the bite?” he repeats. “If it doesn’t kill you – and it could – you’ll become like me.”

“Why me? Why now?”

“I like you, Stiles,” he says again.

“Yeah, okay,” she says. “That’s not an answer.”

“Stiles.”

“ _Peter_.”

He laughs again. “Time is ticking, sweet girl, and I have places to be, nephews to rescue, Argents to slaughter. Do you want it?”

And because Stiles honestly doesn’t think about things in all the ways she probably should before she takes action. Because she isn’t afraid – not of Peter and not of herself. Because she’s too curious for her own good and admittedly a little put-out that the werewolf card didn’t fall into her lap the way it did Scott’s, she does what she more than likely really, really shouldn’t.

“Sure,” she says. “Why not?”

Peter’s smile softens with some emotion Stiles doesn’t want to name, something she hasn’t seen since long before her mother died. It is a thing of sheer beauty. She watches, breathless, as he places another chaste kiss against her pulse, watches the way his eye flare with crimson light, watches his teeth grow long and sharp and ill-fitting for the shape of his mouth.

Stiles can’t help buy cry out at the pain of those teeth as they close around her wrist, though the pain is surprisingly short-lived.

“Thank you, Stiles,” he says after, licking her blood off his lips, cradling her punctured wrist in both hands.

They both watch the way the flesh knits back together, leaving a perfect impression of his teeth like a brand.

“You’re mine now, you know.” He looks high and blissed out from the taste of her, staring at her face like she’s the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky made flesh.

And Stiles can feel the truth of that in every fiber of her being, can feel the way he’s burning through her, even now, claiming every inch of her for himself, fierce and terrible and triumphant. “Oh,” she says, all she _can_ say, because she’d never imagined it would _feel_ like this.

He kisses her then, softly. “All mine,” he whispers against her lips.

It’s Stiles’ first kiss.

It’s definitely not her last.


End file.
